Scarred
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Waterloo". After an enforced separation, Boyd and Grace are reunited, but there are serious and enduring problems that they will both have to face eventually. Complete. T for language and shadows. Enjoy! My 50th WtD fic upload - w00t!
1. Waterloo and Wounds

**DISCLAIMER** – I own nothing.

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><p><strong>AN: **While I was writing this one I realised it would be my 50th WtD fic uploaded here, and as it happened it turned out to be 50 pages long! So, this one's for everyone who loves WtD and its fanfic, everyone who ships Boyd and Grace, and especially for all my long-suffering WtD chums. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Scarred<strong>

By Joodiff

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><p><strong>Prologue – Waterloo<strong>

"Nine bloody years," Grace says wryly, "and we end up homeless under Waterloo Bridge."

"I don't know," Boyd replies, looking around, "it feels kind of familiar, don't you think? Too much concrete, not enough light."

It's the end of an era, and they all know it. Grace isn't surprised when he smiles and puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. It's an affectionate gesture, and so much more. There's something in the look he gives her, something that's profoundly intimate but there's also something else there that she can't quite interpret. His hand drops away, but it's not a rejection. For a moment she senses something unusual in him, something like... equilibrium. But as his smile fades, so does the moment.

He speaks again, still quiet and calm, completely unflustered. "It's time for you to go now. All of you."

Spencer and Eve look at each other, a touch bewildered, but Grace thinks she understands. She looks straight at Boyd, catching and holding his gaze, and says simply, "They're coming for you, aren't they? You told them where to find you."

"They're coming," he agrees without a flicker of emotion.

There's a moment of silence as they all contemplate his words and what they really mean. As if on cue a siren starts to wail in the distance.

"Go," Boyd says, and when none of them move, he adds, "You're all in enough trouble as it is. Get out of here."

It is Spencer who shakes his head slowly. "Not going to happen, sir."

Grace can't help the enormous swell of pride she feels. Neither Spencer Jordan or Eve Lockhart move a muscle. They simply hold position, every bit as calm and composed as their erstwhile leader. Boyd glances at her, and Grace looks steadily back. He says, "Get them out of here, Grace."

"No," she tells him quietly. "It's their choice, not yours or mine."

She wonders briefly if Boyd will resort to shouting. He doesn't. He simply looks out across the Thames for a moment as the approaching siren draws ever-closer. Still very controlled, he says, "Then stay up here out of the way. All of you."

Spencer shoots a questioning look at Grace and she nods slightly. It's a compromise, just like so very much else.

Boyd walks away from them, back down the steps, head high, shoulders set square beneath his dark jacket, and when he reaches the pavement, he simply stops. He doesn't look back, he just waits stoically as the first marked police car and then the second pull up, blue strobes punching tiny holes in the night.

Grace watches as they come for him, young uniformed officers who have no concept of their part in a much bigger drama. She refuses to look away as they put the handcuffs on him and escort him towards the first car. Still, Boyd does not look back, not once, and even when he's in the back of the car, he simply stares straight ahead.

None of them say a word. No-one wants to be responsible for breaking the highly-charged silence. They simply watch, all of them, as he's driven away.

-oOo-

Peter Boyd has fallen and the world is suddenly a very strange and chaotic place. He is on remand, charged not with the murder of DSI Sarah Cavendish, but with being an accessory to the murder of ACC Anthony Nicholson, and even if George Barlow changes his plea to guilty – which everyone knows is never going to happen – the forthcoming trial is going to be long, complicated and bloody. Grace is well aware that Boyd is looking at a minimum of five years imprisonment if the cards fall the way everyone now expects.

The wreckage is spectacular, and of them all it is perhaps only Eve who escapes relatively lightly. Spencer is moved back to CID and is summarily demoted to Detective Sergeant, his career permanently blighted by cruel circumstance and his own loyalty, and Grace… Well, Grace feels as if she is free-falling in an uncertain limbo with no discernible borders. She's no longer seconded to the recently-disbanded CCU, but professionally she hasn't suffered the way Spencer has suffered; personally, however… On a personal level she can't begin to process the extent of the loss and damage.

Icarus has flown too close to the sun, and now he has fallen. And everything and everyone else has come crashing down around him.

Boyd grows more shadowed every time she sees him. There are certain benefits to being on remand – he is able to wear his own clothes, and visiting orders are not required – but he is still a prisoner, a man almost entirely stripped of pride, dignity and status, and seeing him in such circumstances hurts Grace far more than she could ever tell him. Or anyone else. The weeks pass and she watches as his beard grows and his dark eyes become intensely wary. She's not naïve, she knows exactly how hard his life has suddenly become.

He is caught squarely between two opposing factions – the prisoners who hate him for the warrant card he used to carry, and the staff who hate him for the crime he is accused of committing. Sometimes the bruises aren't just in the places no-one can see, and if Grace ever asks Boyd simply gives her an ironic smile and the expected lie. Plainly, imprisonment has made him uncharacteristically clumsy, because it seems he falls over a lot, just as he seems to accidentally to walk into a lot of doors. It's just one more agony Grace finds she has to live with just because there is absolutely no alternative.

The future looks bleak, and for all her inner strength Grace doesn't know how she will face it.

-oOo-

**ONE – Wounds**

It's a cool spring morning, and at precisely eleven o'clock, Boyd steps out through the door in the big gate. Although she's a good distance away seated in the parked car, Grace is immediately shocked by his appearance. He's lost so much weight that the sober grey suit is hanging loosely off him; his shoulders are rounded and his head is held low. He looks around cautiously, and even from the other side of the road, she can see the caginess in him. His hair is cut very short, his beard is closely trimmed, and as far as she can tell not a single trace of iron grey remains anywhere in the brilliant silver. He does not look his age, he looks older by far. In fact, he looks a lot older than she does, and it nearly breaks her heart.

Sitting behind the wheel of the car, Spencer asks quietly, "Grace? Do you want me to wait here?"

Grace nods gratefully. "If you don't mind…?"

He shakes his head, gives her a slight, reassuring smile. "Not at all."

She gets out of the car slowly, and as she does so, the dark gaze from the other side of the road finally settles on her. Boyd doesn't smile, but then Grace doesn't really expect him to. He simply watches as she approaches.

She halts a few cautious feet from him, raises her chin a touch defiantly and says, "I told you I'd be here."

Boyd nods solemnly and his voice is level as he agrees, "So you did."

Two and a half years. They've spoken over the telephone, but Grace hasn't seen him in person for almost two and a half years – his choice, not hers. He looks even more haggard at close quarters, his skin holding an unhealthy pallor, and despite Spencer's gentle warnings she's shocked to the core by her first sight of the deep, narrow scar that neatly bisects his eyebrow, catches the bony edge of his eye socket and then continues down across his cheekbone before finally trailing away to nothing. She still doesn't know how Boyd didn't lose his left eye in the brutal attack that took place so early in his sentence. Just luck, she supposes; luck, experience and preternaturally fast reflexes. The path of the scar clearly shows how he instinctively snapped his head round in an attempt to avoid the improvised blade swung at him by a fellow prisoner.

Grace swallows hard, still utterly determined not to cry. "You look…"

The keen dark eyes regard her for a moment longer and then he says, "Like shit, Grace. I look like shit."

The comment is so dry and so utterly typical of the man she remembers that an involuntary chuckle escapes her. A chuckle that immediately becomes a sob. A sob she despises but simply can't prevent. She starts to turn away, not wanting to embarrass either of them, but the hand that falls heavily on her shoulder stops her. For a second, Grace freezes, not knowing how she is supposed to react to the touch. When she risks a quick, furtive glance upwards, his expression is still completely neutral, but there's something very complex reflecting in the depths of his eyes.

Boyd says, "I knew you'd be in tears within about thirty bloody seconds."

Grace doesn't know if she's surprised or not to find herself being pulled into an embrace that is simultaneously so familiar and yet so strange. He doesn't smell right. He smells of prison and cheap soap. He doesn't feel right – he's altogether too angular, too spare under the suit he was wearing on the day he was sentenced. But the steady strength is still there, and she still has to look up to meet his gaze. She thinks – hopes – that he will kiss her then, but he doesn't. Perhaps it's the ominous presence of the prison looming behind him, or perhaps it's the fact that Spencer is watching them from the car. Or perhaps it's simply too soon for him to deal with such intimacy. Grace doesn't know. It doesn't really matter, because he keeps one arm around her waist as they walk across the road together.

Spencer is standing by the car now, expression as unreadable as Boyd's. He nods and says simply, "Boss."

The reply is laconic. "Spence."

-oOo-

Grace is talking too much. She's aware of it, but she can't seem to stop the words that keep tumbling out. Boyd says very little. He sits in the back of the car and he stares out of the window, and she certain he isn't listening to half of what she's saying. Spencer doesn't say very much, either, just drives steadily back towards the capital, most of his attention apparently on the motorway traffic around them. Grace is tempted to turn the car radio on, but instead she simply talks continuously into the near-silence. It's nerves, she realises, but that doesn't make her feel any better. She waits for Boyd's patience to fray, but he says nothing.

Eventually she hears herself say, "…and we can go and see Morrison tomorrow afternoon."

"Grace," he finally says quietly from the back seat.

She glances round at him. "Boyd?"

"Enough."

She opens her mouth, and quickly closes it again. He has a point.

Silence descends. Strangely, it is Boyd who breaks it several minutes later, asking, "So how's Lambeth CID these days, Spence?"

"Same old, same old," Spencer says. Grace sees him glance in the rear-view mirror. "Our new Super's a bit of a bastard."

"All Supers are bastards," Boyd comments dryly. "It's in the job description along with a tendency for megalomania and a proven ability to piss people off regardless of rank or status."

"True," Spencer says with a quick grin.

Perhaps, Grace thinks, the touch of familiar banter soothing her, there really is a chance for them all. Perhaps the very hardest of the hard days are finally over.

-oOo-

"But the terms of your license…" Spencer says, a very dubious note in his voice.

Boyd favours them both with the kind of look absolutely guaranteed to prevent further argument. "I know what the terms of my bloody license are. I'm not about to attempt to make a run for the continent, I just want to walk. Stop the damned car, Spencer."

Grace nods at the younger man when he looks at her. Quietly, she says, "Pull over, Spence."

He does so, but he's evidently not happy. "Boyd – "

"You're not my fucking keeper, _she_ is," Boyd snaps, and there is a real touch of vehemence in his tone that makes Grace wince. Before she can say anything, however, he's out of the car and already walking away. She looks at Spencer and he looks back gravely before shrugging slightly and putting the car back into gear.

As he pulls away from the kerb, Spencer says, "If he breaks the terms of his license…"

"He won't," Grace says with more confidence than she actually feels.

"You'd better make sure he doesn't," Spencer says grimly. "Because if he does, his feet won't touch the ground. He'll serve every day he's got left of his sentence."

"He knows that, Spence."

"Yeah, and I know him. We both do. One step out of line and…"

"It's not going to happen," Grace says firmly. "Trust me, it's not. He's just letting off steam, you know that."

"And if he doesn't turn up at your place before seven o'clock tonight?"

"He will."

"But if he doesn't, Grace?"

She sighs heavily. "He will, Spence. Call if you like – he'll be there."

Spencer's expression is sombre. "I hope you're right. I really do."

-oOo-

Despite her confident words, an anxious tension twists relentlessly inside Grace until she finally catches sight of a very familiar figure walking up the street towards her house. She watches him from the living room window, stubbornly refusing to look at the clock. It might be wishful thinking, but she thinks his shoulders are set a little squarer, and she thinks there's a touch more strength and purpose in the way he walks. He's always had a distinctive gait, loose-limbed and self-assured, not quite a swagger, but very definitely assertively masculine. She's tempted to go and open the front door ready to greet him, but reluctantly decides against it – instinct tells her not to give him any reason to think she's been nervously watching and waiting. It's difficult, but Grace waits for Boyd to knock before walking out into the hallway, and as she goes she can't help a quick, furtive glance at the clock. It's just gone half-past six.

"Okay?" Grace asks quietly as he walks in past her.

The answer is short. "Yeah."

She doesn't push him. Instead, she says, "Do you want to have a bath or something? While I get on with dinner?"

"Did you pick up all stuff I wanted?"

"Upstairs. If there's anything else you want we can collect it from the storage unit tomorrow."

The reply is noncommittal, but after a moment Boyd starts up the stairs. The temptation to follow him is very strong indeed, but Grace suppresses it. She appreciates the need for a readjustment period, knows that crowding him, fussing over him, is a very bad idea. Boyd needs to be left alone, needs to come to her in his own time. And he will. She's sure he will. She just doesn't know how long it will take.

-oOo-

In an odd sort of way, it's like stepping back in time. The thought strikes Grace much later in the evening when she walks into the living room to find Boyd lounging on the sofa watching the news. It's an achingly familiar sight, one that's deeply imprinted on her memory. Jeans and a loose casual shirt; bare feet. One hand behind his head, the other arm stretched lazily along the back of the sofa. No particular expression on his face, but the dark eyes intent and intelligent as he watches and listens. For just a moment her chest tightens.

Boyd glances round at her, and for the very first time she sees a smile that isn't stiff and wary. True, it's only the ghost of a smile, but that doesn't matter – it's unquestionably there. She wonders if he has any idea of just how much she loves him. She hopes he does. Quietly, she asks, "Are you all right?"

Sounding deeply wry, Boyd says, "Are you likely to stop asking me that at any point in the near future?"

Grace sighs. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just…"

"Come here."

She doesn't think about it, she just goes to him, settles into the same position she always used to occupy, lying in front of him, shoulders against his chest. So familiar, so right. The arm from the back of the sofa moves to curve easily around her waist, and suddenly there they are, cast back in time, settled exactly as they always used to be. He's as warm as she remembers, but the ribs are sharper against her back. She says, "You've lost so much weight."

Boyd grunts, replies, "Scrawny as fuck. Prison food. Truly disgusting."

For a moment Grace silently debates with herself. Eventually, she says "I know this is stupid, but..."

His reply is steadier than she expects. "Go on then. Let's get it over with."

Briefly closing her eyes, she asks, "So… just how bad was it?"

The answer takes several moments to come. "Bad, Grace. It was bad. Very bad, some of it. The only ex-copper in an overcrowded vulnerable prisoner unit? Do you really need me to spell it out for you?"

She tightens her grip automatically on the arm around her waist. "No. But talking about it might help you come to terms with it."

Boyd sighs heavily, deliberately. "Typical psychologist."

"Typical _retired _psychologist," Grace points out.

"I'm trying not to think about that."

The tiny trace of dark humour in his tone warms her immeasurably. "Why? Can't see yourself shacked up with such an old lady?"

"Got it in one, Grace. Got it in one."

She laughs, just a little. "Going to find yourself a younger model?"

"Can't be arsed. Too much like hard work."

"You're such an old romantic," Grace says, returning easily to a very old joke. It doesn't surprise her that his only response is to fractionally increase the strength of his grip. It's enough.

Eventually the inevitable moment comes. The moment where Grace has to clear her throat and say in an oddly embarrassed fashion, "I wasn't sure… I didn't know… Oh, God. Peter, look, if you want to sleep in the spare room, that's okay. I'll understand."

The answering look Boyd gives her is superbly ironic. It's very late and they are now standing together at the foot of the stairs, not quite touching.

"Right," he says with a derisive snort, and the tone exactly matches the look. "Just over three bloody years locked up, Grace, including time spent on remand. Three_ years_. Of _course_ I want to sleep in the spare room. Christ. Get up the stairs, woman."

_Well,_ Grace thinks, well aware of the sudden heat in his eyes, _I suppose that's one question answered…_

Aloud, she says solemnly, "But I'm such an old lady, remember?"

"Yeah, and I'm an old man. Get up the bloody stairs."

Grace genuinely tries, but she can't hold back her delighted grin. "Or…?"

Boyd's dark eyes glint at her. "Oh, I think you know the answer to that."

She's fairly sure that she does, and though the alternative could prove to be a lot of fun indeed, she decides it's probably far more sensible to give in and go up the stairs. In reluctant deference to her age, she does exactly that.

-oOo-

She's far too wise and far too experienced to be surprised. If anything, she simply feels incredibly sad, not for herself, but for him, because it's there, in the quiet, private intimacy of the bedroom that she begins to comprehend what the last three years have done to Boyd. The sex is satisfactory – hardly the best they've ever managed between them, but good enough – and she's very glad to have him back where she privately feels he belongs, but there's something in him that's different. Very different, in fact. The gentle amiability in the bedroom that was one of his most redeeming features has disappeared, replaced it seems, by a bitter sort of edginess that prevents him from relaxing properly in what should be a very tender afterglow.

Grace strokes his hair – shorter than she's ever known him wear it – and gazes at him quietly, wondering if he's as aware as she is of the uncomfortable emotional distance between them. He frowns at her, demands, "What?"

"Not important," she lies, making an effort to smile.

"Do you have to fucking stare at me like that, then?"

The unanticipated, raw aggression in his tone startles her. Boyd has always been blunt, given to saying exactly what he thinks, but the sheer level of belligerence he directs at her with no legitimate provocation is entirely new. Carefully, she says, "I'm just pleased to have you home, that's all."

He groans and shuts his eyes. "Oh, don't start with all the sentimental crap again, Grace; I'm not in the mood."

It's just the need to readjust, Grace tells herself firmly. More than thirty years as a police officer unexpectedly followed by three years as a prisoner. Little wonder he's prickly and edgy. She tries not to stare at the deep scar that mars the left side of his face, the visible evidence of everything he's been through since the night he was arrested by Waterloo Bridge. He needs time and she needs patience. It's that simple. Things will be all right. They have to be.

-oOo-

It's very early and she's very sleepy, but Boyd's voice is very insistent. Remarkably soft, but close to her ear and unrelenting. The solid warmth of his body behind hers is reassuring, but it's been far too long since she's been dragged from her dreams by the caress of his lips on her neck and the gentle but inexorable rocking of his hips against her. Stifling a not altogether unreasonable impulse to complain, Grace mutters dozily, "Go back to sleep."

"Can't," Boyd says succinctly. "Too used to being woken up at the crack of dawn."

Grace can feel, of course, the unmistakable, brazen hardness pressing firmly against her buttocks. It doesn't surprise her in the least, and for once she's not predisposed to complain about his far-too-early-in-the-morning enthusiasm. For her, and maybe even for him, it's not really about sex, it's about re-establishing the intimate bond that has been severed for far too long. Keeping her back to him, Grace shifts position slightly, giving him the access he so obviously wants and she waits. How Boyd reacts will give her some kind of insight into his state of mind. She suspects he will just take what he wants, quickly and selfishly – but it seems she's wrong. He's single-minded about it, certainly, but he takes his time and when he finally eases into her she shivers and moans, and pushes back against him, encouraging him to thrust even deeper.

He's gentler with her than she expects, gentler and more affectionate, and when it's over and they're still locked together in a tight, sweaty embrace, his chest against her shoulders, Grace starts to cry. It's stupid and self-indulgent and she knows Boyd will hate it, so she tries to let the tears fall in absolute silence. It doesn't work – he realises almost instantly, and she waits for the growling annoyance, the spike of exasperated aggression that never comes. He tightens his grip on her, kisses her shoulder, her neck, manages to find some gentle words from somewhere, and it's perhaps then that Grace realises that despite the clear changes in him he is, on a fundamental level, still exactly the same man she accidentally fell in love with years earlier.

"Grace," he says, his voice low and soft. "Come on. Don't do this. It's all right. Everything's all right."

It doesn't help. The tears fall even faster, the sobs tear even harder at her throat, and she instinctively tries to curl herself into a tight, defensive ball. Boyd lets her, but he goes with her, curving around her, keeping the close physical contact between them. He holds her, and he lets her cry, and perhaps that's what she needs more than anything else. She tries to tell him, tries to express in far too few words all the things that roil desperately inside her, but she's not sure Boyd hears any of it, not really. Through the misery gripping her, she finally mutters, "I tried so hard… so bloody hard… but there wasn't a single day when I wasn't terrified… When you were attacked…"

"It's over," he says, quietly enough, but decisively. "Over and done. Finished."

"It's never going to be over," Grace contradicts him. "They released you on license and – "

He interrupts impatiently. "For God's sake, Grace, do you really think I'm stupid enough to do anything that might breach the terms of my license? I'm not going back to prison. Not now, not ever. It's over, and now we move on."

"Just like that?"

Boyd is quite evidently growing more exasperated by the moment, and he growls back, "Of course not. Christ, you knew this wasn't going to be easy. You were given enough chances to – "

"Don't," Grace says, closing her eyes tightly. "Peter, don't. I _wanted_ you to come here, you know that. I didn't offer my address to the parole board on a whim, and I didn't do it because Morrison thought it was a good idea. I did it because I wanted you home. Back where you belong."

"Back where I belong…?"

"Please don't do this. I don't want to fight with you."

Boyd is silent for several long, tense moments, and then she feels his lips gently brush against the sensitive nape of her neck. His voice is suddenly quiet again. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I've done nothing but give you grief so far, have I?"

Grace squeezes her eyes even more tightly closed. "It's all right… I understand. Things… are going to take time."

Boyd kisses her shoulder. There's a note of hollow regret in his voice as he says, "You should've just got on with your life when you had the chance, Grace."

She shakes her head a tiny, stubborn fraction. "No."

It's the only word she needs to say, so effectively does it sum up her attitude over the last three years.

-oOo-

"Drive," he says curtly, dropping heavily into the passenger seat and slamming the car door with unnecessary force. "Fucking bunch of arseholes…"

Grace decides that simply doing as she's told is – for now – the best course of action. Once they're moving, she asks, "That bad?"

Boyd sighs heavily. "What do you think?"

"You knew it was going to be difficult."

"I object to being patronised by some jumped-up little – "

"Boyd."

He grumbles and lapses into sullen silence. More than a minute passes before he says, "They went through the terms of my license again. In ridiculous detail. I think they just enjoyed making it quite clear to me that basically I can't even take a crap without notifying them about it first."

Ignoring his annoyance, Grace asks, "So how often are you going to have to see your probation officer?"

"Owing to my previous good character," he tells her, the irony heavy in his voice, "once a fortnight to start with. If I'm a good boy, they'll probably drop it to monthly in the end. Bastards."

Grace doesn't challenge him. Instead, she says, "No curfew?"

"They don't have the authority. No, I just have to be at my registered address overnight."

"Looks like you're stuck with me, then."

"To be honest, I'd say it was the other way round, Grace," he says wryly. "Well, there goes your reputation. All those years working for the Home Office and you end your days shacked up with an ex-con."

"Scarface," Grace says with a slight grin, and then the reality of her blasé joke hits her in the pit of her stomach like a hard, brutal fist. Mortified, she says, "Oh, God, Boyd… I'm so, so sorry… I wasn't thinking…"

He gives her a long, impassive stare. It seems to take an age for him to say, "Forget it."

"Peter – "

His voice is harsh. "I said, forget it."

She drives in silence, shame and remorse churning inside her.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	2. Anger Management

**TWO – Anger Management**

The first days were never going to be easy for either of them, Boyd understands that. There's a jumpiness about her that he doesn't like, though, one that doesn't seem to go away as one day becomes two, then three and four. He senses it in her all the time, no matter where they are, no matter what they're doing. Grace defers to him constantly in a way that she never has, and it doesn't take long for it to grate on his nerves. He's used to her standing up to him, used to her fighting tooth and nail to hold ground against him, and he likes her that way. He finds her uncharacteristic compliance frustrating, the way she tiptoes around him both wearisome and unsettling. If he growls at her, Grace backs down instantly, and even their well-practised banter lacks the bite he remembers. It doesn't take him long to decide that he really doesn't like the new status quo – not at all.

He's considering the matter as he surveys his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The face that looks back at him is perfectly familiar – dark eyes exactly the same shade as his mother's were; square chin, uncompromising mouth. That damned nose, of course, and the deep scar that's going to be there until the day he dies. He's seen that face every day, is barely aware of any changes, but in a moment of insight, Boyd wonders if what Grace sees when she looks at him is making the situation worse. Nothing he can do about the scar, nothing he can do about the lines that have become so deeply etched into his skin, but his reflective gaze is drawn to his beard. A brief foray into the bathroom cabinet turns up the razor that's apparently been there since before his arrest and after a further moment of contemplation he works up a good lather in the sink and sets to. The end result – full beard remorselessly trimmed back to neat goatee – doesn't mean much to him, but it just might to Grace. Might help her remember exactly who he is behind the prison-pale skin and the ridiculously over-dramatic scar.

Boyd ambles about, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of taking his time getting dressed, and he briefly thinks about the weeks and months ahead before finally descending the stairs in search of her. It's a small house and she's not difficult to find. It doesn't surprise him that she's in the kitchen, but it does faintly surprise him that she appears to be preparing vegetables. It's far too early in the morning for such domestic trivia as far as Boyd is concerned and he asks abruptly, "What on earth are you doing?"

Grace jumps. Quite plainly not because she's unaware of his presence, but quite simply because she's so on edge. Almost in slow motion he sees the inevitable consequence. She startles, she slips with the knife and she gashes her hand. He doesn't know how bad the cut is, but there's suddenly a lot of blood and Grace is simply staring blankly at the injury. Boyd reacts instinctively, falls back on all the first aid training he's had over the long course of his former career. He doesn't flinch, doesn't question, he just plucks a clean cloth from the hook near the sink and takes hold of her wrist so that he can apply pressure to the wound. She looks up at him, expression now slightly bewildered, and she says, "You've had a shave."

"Well done," he says mildly, lifting her wrist to elevate the injury. "Ten out of ten for observation. All those years working side-by-side with us poor bloody detectives weren't entirely wasted then."

"You look different."

"Obviously. Do you think you could stop trying to wave your arm around, Grace? The general idea is to stop the bleeding, not make it worse."

She blinks in confusion, but obeys immediately. He's not sure if he's grateful or not for her acquiescence. Keeping his fingers clamped over the cloth, Boyd says, "Talk to me. What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"Come on," he says wearily. "You're jumpier than the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof."

She doesn't meet his eye. "Sorry."

He hates it. Hates her compliance, her refusal to challenge, let alone argue. It's not her, doesn't suit her; doesn't suit him. He's never known her so quiet, so passive. His frustration mounting, Boyd says, "Fuck's sake… Will you please just talk to me? There's obviously a problem, so let's just get it sorted out…"

Grace finally looks up at him, her blue eyes clearly searching his face for something. Biting back to urge to keep pushing, Boyd waits impatiently and is finally rewarded by a quiet, "I think we just need some time, Boyd. To get used to being around each other again. Does that make sense?"

It does, but he can't help reading rejection into her words. It hurts. Hurts more than he likes to acknowledge, even to himself. Striving to keep his voice calm and level, he says, "What do you want me to do, Grace? I can't move out – the terms of my license are that I live here, at this address."

"I know. But maybe we're… getting under each other's feet a bit, hmm?"

"You don't want me here?" Boyd asks her, not knowing why he feels the need to ask such a brutally frank question. A question that he really isn't sure he wants the answer to.

Grace shakes her head. "It's not that. Really, it's not. But we've been living complete separate lives for the last three years… neither of us is used to… this."

Boyd doesn't want to process the possible implications. Instead, he carefully peels the bloodied cloth back and inspects the gash to her hand. He says, "This is going to need stitches."

-oOo-

Ironically, the extended wrangling over the trip to Accident and Emergency improves Boyd's mood considerably. For the first time he sees some of her rebelliousness, some of her fighting spirit. She doesn't want to go to the hospital and she makes the fact quite clear to him before, during and after he forces her into the car and takes position behind the wheel. Grace complains, she bickers and she sulks, and Boyd finds himself incapable of doing much more than grinning in response as he navigates his way through the morning traffic. She accuses him of making too much fuss over a tiny cut, and he feels vindicated when – as predicted – she ends up with three stitches and an impressively large bandage. She's still grumbling when he takes her elbow and deftly steers her back out into the carpark.

"If you don't shut up," he tells her mildly, "I'm going to be forced to take certain steps."

The look she gives him is thorny – and it makes him absurdly happy. She says, "I'm not talking to you. I've just decided."

"Jolly good. I won't have to listen to you moaning then, will I?"

"I didn't say I wasn't going to moan, I just said I wasn't talking to you."

"You're so cussed."

"And you love it," Grace says promptly.

He stops by her car and uses the hand he still has on her arm as leverage to pull her against him. She feels so tiny in his arms, yet so warm, so vibrantly, wonderfully real. He looks down at her, says simply, "You know I do."

Again, she gives him a long, searching look. She says, "Are we going to be all right, Peter?"

The way she asks is so solemn and so earnest that he knows – without question – that an honest affirmative is all it will take to guarantee that she will fight, and keep fighting, to make things work between them. He says, "I think so, Grace. I think so."

Stubborn as a child, she says, "Promise me."

"Grace – "

"Promise me you'll try. That means doing your best to leave the demons behind, Peter. All of them."

Boyd knows what she's saying. He nods briefly. "I promise."

-oOo-

For Boyd, the early hours of the morning are always the worst. He doesn't have too much trouble drifting off to sleep, but he invariably wakes at some point between one and two, often as a result of nightmares that leave him quite literally in a cold sweat, and though her sleeping presence next to him is comforting, he obstinately refuses to wake her to share the dark lonely hours with him. Awake, he frets, asleep, he dreams. Sometimes he's entirely lost in an odd limbo between the two states, a nebulous, terrifying place where memories, dreams and fears all collide, and he eventually finds himself sweating and shaking and praying for the night to end. Boyd despises himself for what he perceives as weakness, but he knows if he could make the attempt to talk to Grace about what's happening to him she would be more able than most to steer him out of the morass. He can't find the words, can't break through whatever barrier it is that prevents him from sharing the nightmares with her.

That particular night Boyd wakes just before two and he's immediately aware of the slickness of his back and his chest, the unwelcome chill as the sweat starts to cool. He groans almost inaudibly and squeezes his eyes tightly shut again. It doesn't help. There's a dull, thudding ache in his head, and keeping his eyes so tightly closed pulls on the scar. It doesn't hurt, it's just faintly irritating – makes him too aware of the disfigurement. Awareness brings unwelcome memories. Not just memories, but visceral flashbacks, and he fancies he can once again feel the burning white heat of the blade scything downwards from eyebrow to cheekbone and beyond. His stomach muscles knot violently, and his throat constricts. He thinks he can taste the blood again; feel it, smell it. Primal fear.

He thinks he feels rough hands on him again, thinks he can hear the shouting and the wail of the alarm. Can feel himself staggering blindly, stupidly. Blood in his eyes, his nose, his mouth –

"Boyd?"

Her voice.

"Peter? Peter, relax. Come on, you're fine. Everything's all right."

Boyd doesn't know how long Grace keeps up the steady mantra, but her voice is quiet and reassuring and slowly but surely he starts to come back to himself. But not quite far enough back to himself, it seems. He feels her stroking her fingers through his hair, and that's all right, it's tolerable, but when those fingers move down onto his face and brush against his scarred cheekbone, something inside him simply snaps. It's not a conscious thing, his reaction, not a thing he has any control over. It's just pure fear, the innate human fight or flight reflex triggering. He lashes out with a fist, hard and fast, and he feels the blow connect at the same moment as he hears her pained, terrified cry.

That's the same moment that Boyd learns to hate and despise himself more than he ever thought possible.

-oOo-

"Don't you dare," Grace snaps at him, her voice raw with pain and emotion. "Don't you bloody dare hide behind self-indulgent bullshit. You want to prove you're not an animal? Then face things like a man, or I swear – "

"Grace," he tries, but the way she flinches back rips into him, compounds his abject misery.

"No, Boyd," she says curtly, keeping her distance. "You don't do this – you don't do the whole self-loathing thing. You're a grown man, not a child. There's a problem here, a serious problem, and if you don't – "

He interrupts again. "I'm sorry, for fuck's sake. Christ, Grace, you have no idea how sorry I am."

"Oh, I know you're sorry," she says, her tone still sharp and hard. "If I didn't know you were sorry we wouldn't even be having this conversation."

The whole left side of her face seems to be swelling, and Boyd is certain what started just as a red mark is already darkening into a deep, ugly bruise. The sight makes him feel quite literally nauseous, and he drops his head, not able to look anymore. He says, "I wouldn't… Grace, you know I wouldn't…"

"But you did," she says harshly. "How many times have I warned you about that temper of yours?"

Boyd looks up, startled. "Temper? This has nothing to do with whether or not I have a temper."

"Good," Grace says, her tone suddenly very flat. "At least you're prepared to admit that."

Hardly aware of doing so, he narrows his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you have a problem, Boyd. One that you have to face."

"It won't happen again."

"Oh, and you can absolutely guarantee that, can you?"

Boyd opens his mouth to retort, then abruptly closes it again. It's far from a pleasant thought, but he realises that he can't guarantee any such thing. He takes a deep, steadying breath and then he says, "You know what I think of the sort of scum who raise their hands to their partners. You know how I feel about domestic violence of any sort. And you know damn well I'm not that sort of man – never have been, never will be. God's sake, Grace, my own bloody wife used to lash out at me every chance she got – but did I ever once hit her back? No. Because I wouldn't. I couldn't."

Something in her expression softens momentarily. "I know. But there's still a problem, and we both know it."

"I just need…" Boyd starts, but his words trail away as he realises he simply doesn't know what he needs.

"You need help," Grace tells him, her voice gentle but completely inflexible. "Proper, professional help."

He fights the impulse to groan aloud. "Grace…"

"It's your choice," she says simply, raising her hand and wincing as her fingertips start to explore the swelling on her face. "But you did this, Peter. No-one else. You."

There's no bitterness in her tone, but her words burn like acid nonetheless.

-oOo-

Stubbornly, Boyd spends the rest of the night in the small armchair tucked in the corner of the bedroom. He certainly spends more time awake than asleep, but he does doze on and off, and eventually when he opens his eyes, the terrifying darkness has been replaced by thin grey morning light. Just about everything aches, but the pain in his back is so bad he clenches his teeth against the moan of agony that nearly breaks from him. From the direction of the bed, a sleepy voice says irritably, "For heaven's sake, Boyd, will you stop being a martyr and just come back to bed?"

He's too tired and in too much pain to resist. Pathetically grateful, he eases himself up and stumbles the few feet to the bed. Grace holds the covers back for him and he virtually collapses next to her, face-down on the mattress. Blissful warmth and a least a temporary respite from the grinding pain. He almost yelps when she puts a hand on his back and starts to rub gently but firmly. She knows exactly where it hurts, and her touch is as deft as it is soothing. He wants to moan, wants to sigh; wants to cry. He settles on a mutter of, "I'm so, so sorry…"

He feels her lips gently brush against his shoulder. The tender caress is followed by a quiet, "Are you prepared to listen to me? As a psychologist, I mean?"

Boyd doesn't think there's much else he can do. Keeping his head firmly burrowed into the pillows, he says, "Go on."

"What you're experiencing… the symptoms you're exhibiting… they're all classic signs of PTSD. You're traumatised, Peter. Severely traumatised. Nightmares, flashbacks, irritability… I could give you chapter and verse on the diagnostic criteria…" she pauses, as if to give him a chance to process her words, then continues, "I know how you feel about talking therapies, but – "

"C'mon, Grace," he mutters, not quite able to prevent himself from interrupting.

"You do realise that if I'd called the police last night you'd be back in prison already?"

Not a thought Boyd is keen to dwell on. Slowly, carefully, he rolls on his side to look at her. Blue eyes regard him calmly, fearlessly, but all his attention is on the dark bruising that shows far, far too clearly. Loathing and self-recrimination churn inside him, and for a single, stupid moment he's almost tempted to make the call himself. Striving for composure, he says quietly, "Just tell me what you want me to do, Grace."

"I know someone who specialises in treating patients with PTSD – "

He sighs heavily. "Yeah, somehow I thought you might."

"Peter."

Boyd subsides. "Go on."

"She's very good, very experienced. She's successfully treated people who've been through all sorts of things. Nothing you could tell her would shock her. She can help you, Boyd."

The instinct to resist is impossibly strong – but the sight of that spreading bruise on her face…

He asks wearily, "She'd see me as a private patient?"

"I'm sure she would."

"I don't want to do this, Grace."

"I know."

Her gaze is steady, and Boyd sees something in it that seals his fate – faith.

It's a big thing. A huge, frightening thing. He nods slowly. "All right."

-oOo-

Boyd has no patience for the fiddly things, for the things that take time and concentration, but the big things, the things that simply require muscle and obstinacy, he's happy enough to tackle. The weather's good, and he likes being outside, away from walls and closed doors. He's beginning to think he's developing a bit of an obsession with the surprisingly long stretch of lawn – it's a long, long way from being a bowling green, but he's getting there. The mowing, the digging, the hard physical work, he's happy with all of it. Sadly, he has no interest in the plants, the aesthetics – he just likes the challenge of battling stubbornly against years of neglect. Grace Foley is no gardener, either.

He leans on his spade and idly rubs his beard as he surveys the tangled wilderness he has yet to tackle at the far end of the garden. He wonders vaguely whether the young professional couple who bought his house while he was incarcerated have improved on the bland expanse of grass that was about all he had time to bother with. Probably. He hears the kitchen door open, hears her quick, light footsteps across the paved area by the house, but he doesn't look round. Thoughtfully, he asks, "How do you feel about a pond? Plenty of room for it."

Grace stops at his shoulder and gives him a look that's a touch incredulous. "I'm really starting to worry about this new enthusiasm of yours for gardening, Boyd."

"This isn't gardening," he tells her gravely. "This is landscaping."

"Really? There's a difference?"

Flexing his aching shoulders, he nods solemnly. "Yeah. One requires patience and commitment, the other's just a question of brute force and ignorance."

Grace chuckles quietly. "Ah. Landscaping it is, then."

She seems so calm. Boyd doesn't know how she manages it. Every time he sees the dark bruise on her face he's consumed by shame and regret. It twists inside him like a creature with claws, a living, raging thing that's trying to tear its way out of him as bloodily as possible. The self-hatred is a fathomless black well in the pit of his stomach, and his instinct, his deep, animal instinct, is to run as far away from Grace as possible. She turns slightly, surveying the garden, and she's close enough for him to catch a gentle waft of her perfume as she moves. It steadies him a little, puts some of the steel back into his spine.

Grace says, "I just spoke to Ellen."

He barely manages to refrain from grimacing. "And?"

"She can see you tomorrow."

Unenthusiastically, he says, "Jolly good."

"An initial consultation," Grace says calmly. "That's all it is. Get a feel for each other."

Despite everything, Boyd can't help grinning. "Yeah?"

"You're so childish," Grace admonishes, but she smiles slightly. "Trust me, you're not her type."

"Too handsome?"

"Too old."

He gives her a mock-glare. "Ouch, Grace."

"She lives with a thirty-five year-old Jamaican barrister called Rory."

"And she is…?"

"Fifty-six."

Boyd whistles softly and then grins at her. "She's got you firmly trumped in the younger man stakes, then."

Grace sighs. "It's a source of continual disappointment to me."

"Never mind," he tells her nonchalantly. "He's just a barrister. I'm an ex-con. Much more exciting."

"You think?"

Boyd looks at her for a moment, the temptation to march her back into the house and straight up the stairs apparently springing from nowhere. It startles him, the effect she still has on him sometimes. It's the most inappropriate moment he could possibly choose, he's sure, given the events of the previous night. In self-defence he feigns annoyance, growls, "Go away."

Grace smiles at him again, and just for a few fleeting seconds everything in his world is all right.

-oOo-

She's curled comfortably in the big armchair, her attention apparently equally divided between a battered paperback and possibly the most sentimental and poorly-produced romantic film it has ever been Boyd's misfortune to encounter. He's done the loud, ostentatious rustling of the evening paper, he's done the pointed, heavy-footed backwards and forwards to the kitchen and he's done the yawning, scratching and sighing. None of it has made any difference – Grace is still watching the hateful thing. It's not the genre he objects to – though he's assuredly not a fan – it's more a question of just how diabolically bad the film is. Yet, there's something pleasant enough about the banality of the evening that keeps him from the final disgruntled retreat from the room. Maybe, Boyd thinks, this is how other people really do live their lives. He's certain it's not for him… yet in a strange way the ordinariness of it intrigues him.

He is, however, bored. Just to be annoying, he finally nods at the television screen and queries, "Didn't he run off with the other bloke's wife about half-an-hour ago?"

Grace gives him a withering look. "Why don't you go upstairs and have a bath, or something?"

"Come and wash my back?" Boyd suggests.

"No."

"Then I'm quite happy right here, thanks," he tells her. They are playing a careful but ultimately dangerous game, he realises in an unusual moment of insight. Deliberately ignoring all the things that are wrong in favour of maintaining a fragile and very superficial veneer of domesticity. They are ignoring the bandage on her hand, the bruise on her face – ignoring the dark things in him that are directly or indirectly responsible for both injuries. The moment of comprehension shocks him, shakes him. Boyd gazes at her as her attention moves seamlessly between book and film and he is again appalled by what he sees. The gentlest, kindest and most compassionate of women quietly and stoically nursing wounds he's responsible for. The woman who's stood by him through the hardest and darkest of times with her eye blackened and her cheekbone bruised because he won't face the shadows that haunt his days and torment his nights.

Abruptly, Boyd sits forward on the sofa, fingers of both hands laced together, forearms resting on his knees. Head down, he says, "This post-traumatic thing – "

"PTSD," Grace says promptly.

He doesn't look at her. "Yeah, that. You really think seeing a shrink is the answer?"

"She's not a shrink, Boyd. She's a trained psychotherapist. A very experienced trained psychotherapist."

"Whatever. My point is whether or not your whatsit therapy – "

"Talking therapy."

" – could really make any bloody difference. We all go through all kinds of shit in our lives, and surely we just learn to deal with it the best way we can."

Grace says, "But you're _not_ dealing with it, are you? You're locking it away somewhere and trying to ignore it – but it's too big for you. Too powerful."

Boyd looks up and frowns. "That's rubbish."

"Evidently not, since you're suffering from continual nightmares and flashbacks. Tell me something – did you have nightmares after you were stabbed by Dickson all those years ago?"

He considers the question carefully, casts his mind back more than a decade and eventually nods. "Yeah, for a while. That's only natural, isn't it?"

"Of course it is," Grace confirms. "But when – "

"Ellis. His name was Ellis. David Ellis. Serial sex offender who thought he could make his life inside a bit easier by shanking an ex-copper."

" – when _Ellis_ attacked you, the nightmares didn't go away, did they? You still have them – and it's a fairly safe bet that they're as vivid and terrifying now as they were in the immediate aftermath. You're locked into the trauma, Boyd. What happens, how you feel – they're not just going to go away with time, trust me."

Boyd sighs. "You really want me to see this Cooper woman of yours, don't you?"

"I can't force you to go."

"That wasn't what I asked."

Grace nods slowly. "Yes, I want you to see her. You can't run from this, Peter. Can't hide from it. You can't lock it away in a box and pretend it's not there. Not if you want to stay out of prison."

He drops his head again, more in resignation than anything else. Not looking at her, he asks, "Do you want me to sleep in the spare room? Until…?"

The pause is longer than he cares for. By far. Grace says unconvincingly, "Don't be stupid."

"This is one of _those_ moments, isn't it?" Boyd asks in a pained, grim effort at humour. "One of those moments when a woman says one thing and means something completely different…?"

-oOo-

Ellen Cooper is not what Boyd expects. Tall – almost as tall as he is – and… large. Buxom, to use an old-fashioned word. Extremely attractive. Pale skin, dark hair and eyes, and when she smiles at him he completely understands what a man over twenty years her junior sees in her. _Completely_ understands. He's fairly sure that if Grace were present he would already have received a sharp kick to the ankle or a warning glare; possibly both. In his defence, he can't imagine any red-blooded male not fixating at least briefly on the ample amount of cleavage on display. It's very… distracting.

She breaks him out of his happy reverie with, "How long were you in prison for, Peter?"

He doesn't need to think about the answer. "Just over three years, including time spent on remand."

"And you're on license now?"

Boyd nods and automatically tunes out of the discussion. It's a technique he perfected a long time ago, one that never fails to infuriate Grace, on whom, it has to be said, he relentlessly honed the skill. Enough of his mind concentrates to give appropriate, accurate answers, the rest simply wanders, contemplating the room, the décor, the cleavage.

Ellen says, "Have you ever done anything like this before?"

"Anger management," he admits, forcing himself to concentrate again.

"Did it work?"

"In theory."

"In theory?"

He grunts and admits, "I'm not too good at the practice."

"Do you think this is what you need?"

"Aren't _you_ supposed to tell _me_ what I need?" Boyd counters.

Ellen looks at him for a long moment, and he doesn't miss how shrewd, how intelligent her gaze is. She says, "What you're experiencing is a reaction not just to being attacked in prison; it's the result of accumulated stress over an extended period. PTSD was originally known as 'battle fatigue' for a reason, you know."

"Shell shock," he says.

"If you like."

"So?" Boyd prompts impatiently.

Again, she gives him a long, considering look. "I can only help you if you want to be helped, and that's something only you can decide."

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	3. Final Cut

**THREE – Final Cut**

Stirring her coffee, Ellen smiles slightly and says, "I like him, actually."

Wryly, Grace says, "Most women do; at least for a while."

On the other side of the table, Ellen raises her dark, elegant eyebrows. "Why, Grace, I do believe there's a hint of green in your eyes."

"Is it that obvious?" Grace asks, momentarily distracted by laughter from the table behind her.

"I'm afraid so, but I shouldn't be overly worried about it, if I were you. It's one of the inevitable consequences of being with an attractive younger man. Believe me, I know."

A little too sharply, Grace says, "Younger than me, Ellen; not younger than you."

Ellen pulls a face at her. "Irrelevant. Besides, that's very definitely a one woman man."

"Serial monogamist," Grace tells her. It's not entirely accurate, but it's close enough and she's not disposed to be over-charitable when it comes to considering Boyd's past history.

"You're very hard on him, Grace," Ellen says mildly. "Where is he, by the way?"

"Seeing his probation officer."

"I see. And you just thought it would be nice to meet for a friendly chat over coffee, hmm?"

The question is barbed, and Grace sighs. "I'm just worried about him, Ellen, that's all."

"Of course you are. Do we need to have a serious conversation about client confidentiality?"

"No," Grace says. She sighs again, heavily and more in frustration than anything else. "I know you can't tell me what I want to know, but I was hoping you might be able to give me some general reassurance."

The younger woman leans back slightly in her chair. "I really can't tell you that he's attended every session without fail so far, just as I can't tell you he appears to be taking it all very seriously."

"I do appreciate that you can't tell me that sort of thing."

"Good," Ellen says. She sips her coffee and then says, "Hypothetical case study?"

Grace nods. "Go ahead."

"Male, early sixties, complex presentation. Victim of repeated assaults whilst imprisoned, several of them extremely serious, but the underlying pathology may very well be far more problematic."

Grace thinks for a moment, forming her words with care. "Trauma-focused therapy?"

Ellen nods. "Appropriate, and would undoubtedly prove to be beneficial, but probably wouldn't address the core of the problem. _Hypothetically_, we're talking about a client who was already traumatised when he was forcibly placed in a hostile and unfamiliar environment with no means of escape; a client who was then systematically beaten and abused over a sustained period of time – with the tacit complicity of his jailors."

Swallowing hard, Grace says quietly, "It was really that bad?"

Ellen's expression remains unreadable. "It's a theoretical case study, Grace, that's all."

-oOo-

Grace is waiting patiently in her car when she spots Boyd ambling out of the squat, anonymous building that houses the local branch of the Probation Service. He doesn't look like anyone's idea of an ex-offender, she thinks as he waits to cross the road. Too well-dressed, too distinguished-looking. He's gained some weight since his release from prison, doesn't look quite so spare, quite so hungry. The sleek silver hair has grown back to a more familiar length, too, and the prison pallor has disappeared. He looks a lot more like her old friend and erstwhile colleague, and a lot less like the wary, shadowy stranger she and Spencer brought back to London all those months ago. Grace doesn't really even notice the scar on the left side of his face anymore, though she's painfully aware of the stares it sometimes draws from strangers.

As he gets into the car, she says, "I thought we might give lunch at Mario's a miss."

Boyd glances at her, only mildly curious. "Oh?"

"It's becoming a bit of an ingrained habit."

"Stability, Grace. It's good for me, remember?"

"Stability isn't the only thing that's good for you, you know," she tells him, well-aware that he'll catch on remarkably fast. He does, and the look he gives her prompts her to chuckle and say, "What? I'm too old for such shallow thoughts?"

"God, no," he says. "I'm not objecting, I'm just surprised."

"That I want you?"

"Drive," Boyd says abruptly. "Quick, before you change your bloody mind."

Grace smirks… and drives. She's not entirely sure what's prompting her uncharacteristic recklessness, but if he's not interested in questioning it, then neither is she. They've been sleeping apart for longer than she cares to think about, and though Boyd has a tendency to arrive unannounced in her bed somewhere around dawn most mornings, she certainly misses the intimacy, the spontaneity –

"Put your foot down," he instructs, interrupting her languid thoughts. "You drive like an old lady."

"I _am_ an old lady," Grace tells him, just a little acerbically.

"You know what they say, Grace – there's many a good tune played on an old fiddle."

He's so insouciant, so gently humorous that Ellen's words suddenly echo unbidden in her mind, _"Victim of repeated assaults whilst imprisoned, several of them extremely serious…"_

Trying to shake the thoughts and images, she says, "Well, that's lucky for both of us, then, isn't it?"

"Certainly is," Boyd says mildly, but then he casts her an oddly penetrating look. "You okay? You seem a bit… preoccupied."

Grace makes an effort to smile. "I'm fine, Peter. Really."

He frowns. "Hey, we're grown-ups; we don't have to rush home and dive under the sheets just because we can, you know."

"I want to," she says, and it's the truth.

-oOo-

It's not about sex, not really. Not for Grace. Not about the simple mechanics of the act, anyway. For her it's very definitely about the closeness, the lowering of barriers, the fleeting moments when she fancies she can see straight into the unguarded heart of the man. She still enjoys him – enjoys the physicality of him, the unaffected masculinity of him – of course she does, but Grace enjoys the gentle, tranquil aftermath far more. The long, idle moments when he's lazy and sated and docile, the moments when she could tell him anything, ask him anything. The afternoon sun is spilling in through the bedroom window, and she curls herself round him, rests her head on his bare chest and listens to the strong, steady beat of his heart. He's sleepy and satisfied, lightly dozing with one arm possessively draped over her waist, and for a moment the temptation to simply close her eyes and go to sleep herself is very strong indeed.

Running a hand down the smooth expanse of skin to finally rest it on his hip, she says, "Boyd…?"

The reply is sleepy. "Mm?"

"I know you don't want to talk about your sessions with Ellen… but…"

"But…?"

"I just wondered if you thought they were helping?"

"Honest answer?"

She kisses his chest, says, "Of course."

"No, not really. But I told you I'd see it through, and I will."

Grace is silent for a moment as she debates the wisdom of what she needs to say. Eventually, she admits, "I saw her this morning. Ellen. We met for coffee."

There's a good chance, she thinks, that he'll react with entirely typical fury. A good chance that he will shout and storm, abandon the bed in favour of pacing and door-slamming. He doesn't. The response is an easy rumble of, "Yeah, I know."

Grace blinks in surprise, frowns. "You know?"

"She called me this morning while you were still in the shower. Something about maintaining counsellor-client trust."

"And it didn't occur to you to tell me?" Grace demands, leaning up on an elbow and glaring at him.

Boyd gazes back serenely. "Pretty much the way it didn't seem to occur to _you_ to tell _me_, I should imagine."

She winces inwardly. It surprises her, though, how calm he is. Thoroughly caught, she says, "Sorry."

"You should be. Not exactly appropriate, is it?"

Guilt makes her defensive. "Oh, come on, I've known her for years. She's an old friend."

He shakes his head. "Give it up, Grace. This time you're firmly in the wrong, and you know it."

"You're really annoying when you've got the moral high ground," Grace tells him, but her sense of relief both at sharing the secret and his reaction easily outweighs her irritation. She sits up, ignoring his growl of protest as she takes the covers with her. The sun coming through the window is warm – but not that warm. "I just needed a bit of reassurance, that's all. I'm worried about you."

Idly scratching his bare chest, he says, "Don't be."

"For God's sake, Boyd – I love you… how can I not be worried about you?"

Something in his tone hardens fractionally. "You're making too much of it, Grace. You always have."

She speaks before she thinks. "You punched me in the face."

Boyd sits up, and his expression is uncompromising, dark. Dangerous. "Oh, I knew we'd get round to that eventually. _Once_, Grace. Once, when I didn't know what the hell I was doing – and I was utterly mortified. How many more times do you want me to apologise?"

The docility is slipping away. The temper – still just as fierce, just as unforgiving – is rising. Grace knows the signs only too well. Turning away from him she says, "Just forget it, Boyd."

The cold answering silence speaks volumes.

-oOo-

The garden, though, is a success. Grace suspects it's a kind of therapy for him, whether Boyd knows it or not. What was a largely neglected semi-wilderness is now very definitely a garden. In a very terse, harsh sort of way. Hard manual labour suits him, artistic creativity doesn't. The few new plants and flowers that have arrived in the freshly dug beds are her own less than enthusiastic contribution to the project. They're not going to be winning any prizes for horticulture any time soon, either of them. Still, for the first time since moving into the house years before, Grace is able to sit out in the garden with a glass of wine and at least half-enjoy the experience. Even her neighbours have commented on the startling improvement. It does seem a little trite, however – retire and take up gardening. Only Boyd isn't technically retired – stripped of any rights to a police pension, and still too young for a state pension, he's too proud and too stubborn to claim any other benefits, so he exists in a slightly confused no-man's land, an ex-offender living off his dwindling savings and the proceeds of the sale of his house.

It's probably too early for a second glass, but Grace pours one anyway as she thinks about the future. Boyd isn't the only one in limbo, she realises. So much of what they can and can't do is dictated by the terms of his license. They can't even go away for a few days without the written approval of his probation officer. Can't spend the night somewhere else, can't go on holiday – definitely not abroad. Boyd can't work, can't change his address, can't do very much at all without the authorisation of the pedantic and slightly supercilious Alan Walker. It weighs on them both, and it weighs more heavily on Grace than she ever expected it would. It all seemed so simple when he was going through the motions of applying for parole – no price seemed too high to pay for freedom. The thought is a sobering one. The restrictions aren't an additional penalty, nor are they unfair. He should still be in prison, getting through the long days of his sentence the best way he can.

"You look pensive," his voice says, startling her.

She watches as Boyd settles himself on the other side of the little wrought-iron garden table. "Just thinking."

"I'd never have guessed. Bit early to be hitting the vino, isn't it?"

Grace ignores the provocation. She says, "We're just drifting, you know that, don't you?"

"Isn't that the point of being retired?"

"Don't you ever wonder what the hell it is we're doing?"

Boyd studies her for a moment, then says, "Come on, Grace. Just say whatever it is you want to say."

She looks at the garden, at the long swathe of lawn, the new pond. The words seem to come from a deep, secret place inside her, one she didn't know existed. "This isn't working."

-oOo-

They talk, and they get nowhere. They go round in circles and achieve nothing. Grace watches Boyd fight to remain calm and she knows without question that she loves him – but that it's not enough. She's starting to resent his enforced proximity, the restrictions being imposed on her life by his presence, and it's not even just that selfish – she can see the way things are heading between them, can see his mounting frustration, the way he struggles between anger and depression. The way they are slowly choking the life out each other, silently and insidiously. She says, "You got us into this, Boyd. If you'd just followed the rules for once in your life instead of taking matters into your own hands…"

He stops pacing long enough to shoot a glare at her. "I didn't bloody kill Nicholson, did I?"

"You didn't pull the trigger, at least."

"He was scum, Grace. Don't tell me you don't think he got exactly what he deserved?"

"'Live by the sword, die by the sword'?" Grace questions.

"If you like. It was about justice, plain and simple."

"You _knew_ Barlow would kill him."

"Like he killed Sarah. For one."

Grace sighs. "There's really no point in discussing this, is there?"

Boyd starts to pace up and down the room again. "So what the fuck do you expect me to do, Grace?"

"Talk to Walker. He'll have a list of Approved Premises – "

"Wait," he interrupts her curtly. "You're not actually serious about this? You don't really expect me to move into a bloody probation hostel?"

"Peter – "

He cuts across her again, his tone incredulous. "No. You don't tell me you want me gone then 'Peter' me. That's not how it works."

"We can still see each other. I just think…" Grace lets the words trail away as Boyd starts to laugh. It's a hard, bitter sound, not pleasant at all. She takes a breath, exhales slowly. "We don't communicate, we just drift from one day to the next pretending that everything's fine when it's a long, long way from it. Do you really want to live like that for the rest of your life?"

"Fuck's sake, Grace – I've done everything you wanted. What else can I do?"

"Talk to me," she tells him calmly.

"I talk to you all the bloody time."

"Don't be deliberately obtuse, Boyd."

He stops pacing, turns to face her, his expression set and grim. "It's not your job to punish me, Grace. The justice system is doing that."

Grace can't help laughing sharply. "Only you could see talking about what you've been through as a punishment."

"If you're that keen to know, why don't you ask your friend Ellen?" Boyd suggests sardonically.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Ridiculous? You're the one who oh-so innocently had coffee with her this morning. That was completely out of order, Grace."

Stung, she demands, "Why don't you ask yourself why your partner – the one you profess to love – felt that she had no other option?"

Boyd glowers at her. There's something about his stillness, the aggressive set of his shoulders that acts as a silent warning. He's very close to the edge now, and Grace knows it. When he speaks, he does so surprisingly quietly, every word perfectly enunciated. "I was a senior police officer found guilty of being an accomplice to the murder of another senior police officer. A copper who killed a copper. How naïve do you expect me to believe you are, Grace? You know exactly what it was like for me inside. Why are you so obsessed with hearing all the gruesome details?"

"I'm not," she counters briskly. Looking at him, though, she can't help dwelling on what those dark, compelling eyes have witnessed. "Boyd – "

"What do you think you'll get out of it, Grace? Some kind of vicarious thrill? Is that what this is all about? Prurience? You think you'll get off on hearing what happened to me in there? What they did to me?"

Savagely, she says, "Grow up, Boyd. It's not about anything like that, it's about the fact that you evidently don't trust me enough to tell me."

"That's bollocks. Christ, when have I ever been the sort of man who pours out his heart and soul? Just fucking leave it alone."

"I can't live with a man who flatly refuses to be open with me."

His lip curls, the anger and the contempt very clear. "Well, that's easily solved. Call the police. Tell them I threatened you. I'll be back inside before you can snap your fingers"

Grace sighs heavily. "Don't be stupid, Boyd."

His tone is brittle. "Keep pushing me, Grace, and you'll find out just how bloody stupid I can be."

She stares at him and asks calmly, "Is that a threat?"

"God's sake…" he growls, starting to pace again. "You're being completely unreasonable."

Coldly, Grace replies, "Oh, I learnt at the feet of a master, believe me."

-oOo-

Inevitably, the storm blows itself out, but the wreckage it leaves in its wake is heart-breaking. They retreat to opposite ends of the house, a palpable wall of tension between them; a new and frightening sort of tension. They've had so many arguments over the years, some of them very serious indeed, but Grace recognises that this is something unusual. This is not just a difference of opinion that has resulted in Boyd's notoriously fiery temper flaring uncontrollably – this is something much deeper and much, much more serious. This, she realises, is a pivotal moment in their long relationship, a moment that really could spell the end for them. Everything that's always been wrong distilled down to one final flashpoint. He's never truly opened up fully to her about anything in well over a decade and she's reached the point where that's no longer acceptable. It is – startlingly – that simple. Grace wants what he can't – or won't – give.

As the evening wears on she finds herself reflecting more and more on the nature of their turbulent, idiosyncratic relationship, and none of the conclusions she reaches are positive. Peter Boyd is – has always been – high maintenance. At his worst he is obstinate, contrary and unpredictable, given to appalling outbursts of temper. At his best… At his best he is exciting, engaging and… And it is not enough. Not as a partner. As a friend, yes. Not as the man she'll end her days with. It's an oddly calm realisation, one that is gentle and melancholy, and Grace takes her time accepting it, staring at nothing in particular as she sips her wine and listens to the sound of him taking himself upstairs to bed. Silence falls, but the brutal edge has gone from it. The fighting is over and done.

Eventually Grace ascends the stairs herself. The door of the spare room is ajar as it always is, and she can see the soft glow of the bedside light. It seems appropriate, somehow to knock quietly instead of walking straight in on him. The small room is warm and shadowy, and he's propped up against the pillows, arms folded contemplatively over his chest. He looks as old and tired and defeated as she feels. Without a word Grace sits herself on the end of the bed, meeting and holding his dark gaze. It's Boyd who eventually speaks, his voice quiet. "It's over, isn't it?"

Grace faces the truth squarely. "I think so, yes."

After a moment he nods slightly. "I'll ring Walker in the morning."

"Thank you."

So calm, so polite. Not the way she ever expected it to end. The lump in her throat is very real and very painful.

Boyd holds out a hand to her. "Come here."

Grace moves towards him, knowing it will break her. It does. She cries quietly and for a long time, and Boyd simply holds her and says absolutely nothing.

-oOo-

The last night is the worst night. The night before Boyd goes. The night his bags are already packed and they end up sitting in silence staring at the television screen without seeing any of the ever-changing images. No more fights, no more harsh words. It's all over and done with. Grace understands the cold terms of their separation, and she thinks that her quiet acceptance of them placates him a little. Boyd is taciturn, a little gruff, but he's not unkind. For three days they have circled like wary strangers, and now they are in the final hours she finds herself still frantically turning everything over and over in her mind, desperately searching for alternatives. Apparently from nowhere, Boyd says, "If you ever need me…"

Grace doesn't look at him. "I'll always need you, Peter."

"You know what I mean."

She nods, not trusting herself to say anything but, "Thanks."

A few moments later he suggests, "Shall we have one last really big argument, just for old times' sake?"

"Don't," she says quietly.

Boyd lapses into silence. Sneaking a sideways glance, she wonders if she'll ever see him again. Probably not, despite what she wants. He's too proud and too stubborn, and she's simply not prepared to compromise. Not anymore. He says, "It hurts, doesn't it?"

"Like hell," Grace agrees soberly.

"T.S. Elliot."

She frowns. "What?"

"Look it up."

Grace doesn't need to. She knows exactly what he's alluding to. In days gone by she would certainly have teased him for the literary reference just to irritate him. This time, she simply quotes, "'Not with a bang but a whimper'."

"Mm."

"What will you do?" Grace asks after several more of the last minutes have ticked relentlessly past in uncomfortable silence. "When your probation ends, I mean?"

Boyd shrugs. "No clue. What about you? Do you have any plans?"

"No."

"Remind me again why this is such a good idea…?"

"Peter…"

He holds up a hand. "It's all right. You don't have to give me the lecture."

Almost hopefully, she says, "It really doesn't have to be like this, you know."

"Oh, it does," Boyd tells her, and there's an unguarded, raw note in his voice. "A clean break, no complications, no recriminations. I'm sorry, Grace, I just can't be the old friend you sometimes manage to find time to have lunch with."

"I know," she says heavily. Again the silence stretches, its character uncertain. Thinking about days long gone by, she says, "You always said it would be a mistake. Us getting together."

Boyd shoots her a look that's as steady as it is incisive. "As far as I'm concerned, I was wrong. It wasn't a mistake, Grace. I don't regret it. Just because – "

"No post mortems, remember?" Grace reminds him with a slight, pained smile.

He nods in silent assent, and they go back to staring mindlessly at the television screen. But this time her head's resting gently on his shoulder and his arm is around her waist.

-oOo-

The day Boyd leaves is the day that rain falls steadily in London from dawn until dusk with barely a pause. The day that couldn't be more stereotypically dull, grey and depressing. The day he leaves is the day Grace stumbles between relief and regret, the day she wonders whether he was ever anything more than a beautiful chimera, a wishful dream she would never have been able to hang onto forever. She's left with her memories, her empty house and her newly-renovated garden. She's left with the cold space where Peter Boyd used to be and the freedom to do exactly what she wishes when she wishes.

It's something… and it's nothing at all.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	4. The Hardest Word

**FOUR – The Hardest Word**

There's an implacable note in the well-educated female voice that says, "Spencer gives up far too easily. That's why he's living on his own in a grotty flat in Hoxton and Kim's living in luxury in Islington with the baby."

Grace can't help sighing. "Get to the point, Eve."

"You've got to come. For heaven's sake, yes, it might be a bit awkward at first, but you know he'd want you to be there."

"Haven't you listened to a single word I've been saying for the last eighteen months?"

"Of course I have," the impatient, disembodied voice on the other end of the line says. "But I also know you should see him. You do know he's planning to leave London altogether?"

"Spence mentioned it, yes."

"And…?"

"'And'? Eve, I really wish you'd all stop treating us like a pair of star-crossed lovers. We were together, and now we're not. It didn't work out. Is that really so hard for all of you to understand?"

"It wouldn't be if it wasn't so glaringly obvious to everyone that you're still carrying a torch for each other."

"Oh, please," Grace says, rolling her eyes to herself. "I'm happy for him, and I'm proud of him – he's made it all the way through without getting himself into trouble and being recalled to prison, but that doesn't mean I should see him."

"And you say Boyd's the stubborn one," Eve's voice says accusingly. "It's one bloody evening, Grace. A few drinks and a quiet meal to celebrate an old friend's liberation. Surely you can bear to be in the same room with him for a few hours? Could be your last chance, you know, if he goes through with buying a place in the middle of nowhere."

"The middle of nowhere won't suit him," Grace says dryly. "No good restaurants and no-one to shout at."

Eve's answering chuckle is quite clear. "Oh, he's a reformed character nowadays, Grace. Only shouts at people on high days and holidays, apparently."

"Good for him."

"Grace…"

"No, I mean it," she says. "Good for him. Look, Eve, I'll think about it, okay? No promises."

"I'll call you in a couple of days," Eve says promptly. "'Bye, Grace."

Grace shakes her head at the empty hallway as the line goes dead. She's weakening, and she's fairly sure Eve can sense it. Returning to the living room, she makes a half-hearted attempt at returning to proof-reading the latest draft of her newest academic paper, but even that seems to recall things she really isn't sure she should be thinking about. On a whim, she gets back to her feet and returns to the hall. Flipping through her dog-eared address book, she finds Ellen Cooper's office number, and before she can change her mind she starts to dial.

The officious receptionist who answers isn't keen to transfer her, but after a few minutes of alternate bickering and persuasion it's very definitely Ellen's voice that says in her ear, "Grace. How are you? We haven't spoken for months."

"Sorry," she responds guiltily. "I kept meaning to… You know how things are…"

"I certainly do. Is this a social call, or…?"

"Not really," Grace admits. Metaphorically biting the bullet, she ploughs on, "I was wondering if Peter Boyd was still attending therapy sessions with you…?"

"Peter?" Ellen's surprised voice says. "No, not for… what… three or four months now, I suppose."

Despite the news being exactly what she expected to hear, Grace feels her heart sink. A little too quickly, she says, "Okay. Thanks. I'm not surprised, to be honest. He never was one for – "

"Hang on," Ellen interrupts. "I think you're jumping to conclusions. Grace. He didn't just stop coming – I referred him on."

"You referred him on?" Grace repeats, definitely startled by the information.

"Mutual decision – there wasn't much more I could do for him, to be honest. I referred him to Dan Campbell at the Oaks Clinic. Do you know him? Specialises in various types of behavioural therapy. I've sent several clients to him over the years."

Grace is struggling to process the other woman's words. "Wait… you're telling me Boyd's still attending therapy sessions?"

"I can't confirm or deny that, Grace, as you well know. Shall we just say I haven't had any negative feedback from Dan."

"And this was a _voluntary_ arrangement?"

"Of course. Look, Grace, I know there are… unresolved issues… between you and Peter, but you really should be talking to him about this, not me."

Grace is frowning. She says quietly, "You might be right…"

-oOo-

It isn't Boyd she talks to, of course. It's Frankie Wharton, also now domiciled in London after several years abroad. They meet in a small, privately-owned coffee shop near Camden Lock, and after the expected small talk is exhausted, Grace goes on the offensive. Frankie's response is to look slightly guilty and slightly bewildered and to demand, "Yeah, but why are you asking _me_ all this, Grace?"

Grace fixes her with a steady gaze. "Because you're closer to him than anyone else."

Her companion snorts. "Since when?"

Grace says simply, "Frankie."

"Yeah, I suppose we get along," Frankie admits grudgingly after a moment.

"He's always had a soft spot for you."

Frankie looks faintly edgy. "Where are you going with this, Grace? I see him a couple of times a month, maybe – if that. Sometimes we go out for a drink and put the world to rights. That hardly constitutes a special relationship."

Grace changes tack. "Eve wants me to come to this dinner thing."

"We _all_ want you to come to the 'dinner thing'. It might be the last time all the old gang get together. Who's going to be mum if you don't come?"

"I think you're all a little bit too old to need a surrogate mum now, Frankie."

"Rubbish," the younger woman says with a quick grin. "It's just the way things are – you and Boyd, mum and dad."

Grace says, "That's just the problem, though, isn't it? Me and Boyd."

"Only inasmuch as you need your bloody heads banging together. You haven't seen him since you kicked him out, have you?"

"I didn't exactly kick him out, Frankie," Grace says defensively.

Frankie shrugs. "Whatever. You haven't seen him, have you?"

"You know I haven't."

"Well now's your chance," Frankie says. "You want me to be completely honest with you?"

Grace nods slowly. "Go on."

"I think – we all think – it was the wake-up call he needed. Suddenly finding himself all alone in a hostel with only his demons for company. No-one pussyfooting round him, no-one trying to make things easy for him. Sink or swim, and guess what… he got his arse in gear and decided to swim. He always was a lot tougher emotionally than you gave him credit for. He's turned things round for himself, and everyone can see it. Look," Frankie pauses for a moment, then continues, "I really don't know if this is what you want to hear – but if you still care about him, this is the best, and maybe the last chance you're going to get to put things right between you."

Grace lets the words settle, examines them quietly. She says, "It didn't matter what I did, what I tried, he wouldn't talk to me, Frankie. Wouldn't open up to me at all."

Frankie grunts disparagingly. "This is _Boyd_ we're talking about. You remember him? Big guy, scary temper, lots of decibels? Wouldn't actually hurt a fly unless it was committing an arrestable offence? Strong silent type?"

Grace smiles slightly. "I remember him, yes."

"We all love you dearly, Grace, you know that… but you can be a bit… hard work… sometimes. Not everyone wants to go round baring their souls on command. He's not a talker, he's a doer."

"Something I'm very well aware of, but when you're in a relationship with someone like that…"

Frankie asks, "Who were you in love with, Grace? Boyd, or some idealised version of Boyd who only ever existed in your own head…?"

The emotive question is delivered quietly, but decisively, and Grace is still uneasily considering it hours later.

-oOo-

When the evening she's been dreading arrives, Grace tells herself firmly that she's not apprehensive, that her former colleagues are right – it's only a few hours in a quiet restaurant. Still, she catches herself taking a little more time than usual getting ready, finds herself surveying herself far too critically in the mirror as she puts the finishing touches to her make-up. The years are really starting to press home and she's very aware of it. More and more grey to be expertly conjured away by her hairdresser, more and deeper lines to be camouflaged as carefully as possible. Optimistically, she tells herself that they're _all_ a lot older than they once were – even Frankie's heading relentlessly for her late forties, and Boyd himself is now in his mid-sixties – but somehow it doesn't stop Grace feeling old and dowdy when she catches a glimpse of herself in the restaurant's plate glass window.

He always used to say she was her own worst critic. Quietly and indulgently, with a touch of gentle humour in his eyes. Boyd never seemed to see the things she saw. Rapidly banishing such thoughts from her mind, Grace mentally braces herself for the evening ahead. Raising her chin a fraction, she walks into the restaurant as confidently as she can. Her ex-colleagues are difficult to miss, already seated around a large corner table and already deep in conversation. Spencer, Eve, Frankie and even Kat, all of them chatting easily as if the preceding five years have just been a bad dream. Boyd sits among them the way he always has, a great, shaggy lion, undisputed head of the pride, no matter how many years have passed. Grace sees him before he sees her. He's grinning at Frankie, and for a moment they could be not just five, but ten or more years back in time.

Spencer spots her first, and gets quickly to his feet, closely followed by Boyd. Two pairs of deep, expressive male eyes gaze at her as she approaches, but for some reason she doesn't feel as intimidated as she feared she might. Eve stands up next and then the others, and the greetings wash over her, the kind words, the quick embraces and brief kisses… and then suddenly it's just the two of them and everyone else seems to be determinedly focusing on each other, or on the table, or on the pictures on the walls. Boyd leans into her, brushes the lightest of kisses against her cheek and says quietly, "Thank you for coming."

Grace doesn't know what to say. Too many words tumble through her head and in lieu of anything better she settles for a noncommittal noise and a forced, polite smile. There's no real time to feel awkward, not with Spencer gallantly taking her coat, and Eve waving her to the chair next to her. Compliments are given and received, snippets of news exchanged, and all the time Grace feels as if she's acting out a part in a particularly surreal drama. Boyd is talking to Kat, and Grace is surprised to see how open his expression is, how easily he smiles. He looks good, she thinks, just a touch wryly. He's always carried the years well, and that hasn't changed at all. Still a conspicuously handsome man, even with that deep, grooved scar that still automatically draws the eye. With a start, she realises the direction of his gaze has changed. He's looking straight at her, a little amused, a little quizzical and she smiles hesitantly in response.

"Grace," Spencer says, unknowingly interrupting the moment. "Frankie's been telling me about this book you're thinking of writing…"

The conversation flows easily, only briefly interrupted here and there by the comings and goings of the waiter, the arrival of food and further bottles of wine. It's a little like a school reunion, Grace thinks with a small smile to herself. The banter, the catching-up, the gently ironic deference to the head-boy. She's glad she made the difficult decision to push her reluctance aside, glad she actually got into the taxi when it arrived. The time passes much faster than she expects, however, and almost before she knows it they're into a round of toasts and mock-solemn speeches.

Spencer asks, "So what's it like to be a completely free man again, boss?"

Boyd gives him a surprisingly long and contemplative look before replying, "It's a good feeling, Spence. A very good feeling."

Frankie nudges him with her shoulder. "So, what are you going to do now you don't have to be a good boy anymore? Grow old disgracefully?"

He chuckles insouciantly. "I bloody hope so, Frankie."

"Sports car," Frankie suggests, "gambling habit and a thirty-something blonde?"

"Trying to push me into an early grave, are you?"

"Can't take the pace anymore, Boyd?" Grace chips in mildly, surprising herself.

He directs the full force of his most feral grin at her. "Damn right."

-oOo-

Kat leaves first, followed fairly quickly by Eve, and though Grace is tempted to stay just a bit longer with her old comrades, she senses that it's time to go. The evening has passed without incident and the atmosphere is friendly; best, she thinks, to quit while she's ahead as the old saying goes. Spencer helps her back on with her coat, and all the expected things about getting together again soon are said. It doesn't matter that it probably won't happen – it's the enduring bond behind the words that's important. Grace smiles and wishes them well and heads for the door, leaving behind her a burgeoning argument over how to split the remainder of the bill. Traditionally, it will be Boyd, of course, who loses patience with the whole rigmarole and simply throws down a handful of high-denomination notes. It surprises her, then, that he's suddenly at her shoulder, that he's suddenly holding the door open for her. She looks at him, and he simply raises his eyebrows at her. "Shall we…?"

Aware that he's following her out onto the pavement, Grace says, "It's been such a good evening, Boyd. Let's not spoil it, eh?"

"Hey," he says, his wounded expression patently feigned, "I just wanted to give you this, that's all."

Bewildered, she takes the small, slightly crumpled piece of paper he holds out to her. Even under street lighting and without her glasses, she can see that what he's giving her is an address. Not certain how to react, she says, "Um… thanks."

"Tufnell Park," Boyd says, the note of deep disgust in his voice quite clear.

"North of the river?" Grace asks, amused. "Are you sure you can cope?"

"Six-month lease," he explains. "Beats the hell out of living in a hostel, even if it is on the wrong side of the Thames."

"You've already moved in?"

"Mm. The Probation Service like to know you're settled somewhere before they wash their hands of you."

There's an awkward moment of silence. Grace isn't sure what to say, and from the way Boyd is uneasily glancing up and down the street, neither is he. So much water under so many bridges, she thinks. Ignoring the banality, she tries, "You're looking really well, Boyd. Whatever you've been up to seems to be suiting you."

"I could say the same about you," he says simply. His evident sincerity makes her uncomfortable and something in her expression must give away her scepticism because he chuckles quietly. "Same old Grace. Still can't take a compliment."

"Less of the old," she chides. It's easier than admitting that he's right. The sight of an oncoming black cab makes her take an involuntary step towards the kerb, but as she raises her hand it's already too late – the driver either doesn't see her or deliberately ignores her, and she can't help muttering irritably to herself.

"Do you need a lift?" Boyd asks her. "My car's just round the corner…"

"No," she says quickly. "No, it's fine. Let's not tempt fate."

He nods solemnly. "All right. Call me, Grace, okay? I'd like you to."

She's tempted to remind him who it was who insisted on breaking off all contact, but she hasn't the heart for an argument, so she simply nods slightly. "I will."

"I mean it," he tells her. "Call me. We'll have lunch or something – " he breaks off, interrupting himself, sticks his fingers in his mouth and gives an ear-piercing whistle followed by a bark of, "Taxi!"

Infuriatingly, the second passing back cab immediately pulls in and comes to a gentle halt beside them. Trying not to grit her teeth, Grace says tartly, "Thanks."

Boyd smirks. "I do still have my uses, you know…"

Grace knows potentially dangerous territory when she sees it. It's definitely time to leave.

-oOo-

Ellen is less than sympathetic initially, and even when she does agree to meet for lunch, she makes it very clear that she has no intention of discussing Boyd in anything but the broadest of terms. Grace understands, but she says in response, "There's simply no-one else I can talk to about this, Ellen. No-one else with the necessary insight to…"

"Counsel you?" Ellen suggests grimly.

Grimacing, Grace nods reluctantly. "I suppose so, yes."

Ellen sighs and stares out of the window for a moment. It's a bright, sunny weekend day, and a continual stream of people are bustling happily along the street going about their own business. She says, "Go on, then, Grace. Talk to me."

"I saw him. A few nights ago. A group of us got together for a meal."

"And?"

Grace casts her mind back to earlier in the week, thinks about the friendly atmosphere, the easy conversation. She says, "And… it was a good evening. He seems to be very well, very… together."

Ellen nods. "I don't think it would be speaking out of turn to say that he's successfully conquered a few demons. Laid a few ghosts to rest."

"I got that impression."

Ellen shrugs. "So? That's the whole point of therapy."

"Maybe I never expected him to respond so well to it."

"I'm not discussing the details of his case with you, Grace."

"I really don't expect you to," Grace assures her, picking at the food on her plate. "He was just so… open. I don't think I've ever seen him so relaxed. So at ease with himself."

"So…?" Ellen prompts patiently.

"He asked me to call him."

"I see. Are you going to?"

Grace sighs as all the contradictory thoughts and feelings swirl in her mind. "That's just it – I don't know. Seeing him again… it stirred up a lot of things. I think he was right. I don't think we can ever go back to being 'just good friends'. There's too much between us. I don't think I can start seeing him as a friend without wanting far more."

"You should be having this conversation with Peter, not with me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because… we just don't communicate on that sort of level. We never have."

"And therefore you never will?" Ellen says. "I think you'll find that's what's known as a logical fallacy, Grace."

Grace considers her old friend's words and decides, reluctantly, that there may be some truth in them. She stares at her plate thoughtfully and finally says, "I pushed him too hard to open up to me, didn't I?"

The other woman's voice is quiet. "I think you've known that for a while."

It's the truth, of course. It's taken time, but Grace has certainly started to accept her own culpability. Not as an excuse, but as an attempt at explanation, she says, "I was just so worried about him, about what he'd been through. I wanted to understand, to help."

"I know, but you have to accept that he simply wasn't ready to talk to you," Ellen tells her. She pauses and then continues, "You know how traumatised he was, how unable to deal with what had happened to him he was. He lost virtually everything overnight – career, status, self-respect, never mind his liberty – and then he found himself in the most hostile environment imaginable. Grace, we're not talking about playground bullying; he was in continual fear for his life, day-in, day-out for nearly three years. That sort of stress can have a catastrophic effect on anyone's mental health."

"Ellen, I do know all this," Grace says, striving for patience.

"So what are you looking for? Someone to apportion blame? Someone to tell you what you should do now? Talk to him, Grace. Or don't. It's entirely your choice."

"Maybe what I need to know is whether or not he'll listen to me."

"I think that rather depends," Ellen says, sipping her coffee.

"On?"

"You, obviously. You're not his psychologist, Grace."

"Funny, he used to say that," Grace says dryly.

"And it never crossed your mind to wonder if he had a point?"

Grace bridles automatically at the suggestion of accusation in the other woman's voice. "So it was all _my_ fault?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Grace," Ellen says with a sharp shake of her head. "You're a clever woman, and a brilliant psychologist, but you're absolutely hopeless when it comes to quietly stepping back and just letting things be what they are. Do you know what happened to Peter's father?"

"Of course," Grace says with a frown. "He was killed on active service in Aden."

"Leaving Peter, as a teenager, to assume responsibility for his mother and his younger siblings."

"Yes, I am aware of that, thank you."

Ellen ignores the implied rebuke. "Then I'm sure you're also aware of the profound effect taking on so much at such an impressionable age had on him. It didn't just make him very protective, it made him very stoical, very self-reliant – not bad qualities in a police officer, admittedly – but it also made it very difficult for him to discuss anything in himself he perceives as a vulnerability, especially with the people he cares about."

Dryly, Grace says, "I've had more than fifteen years to work that out for myself, Ellen."

"Yet you continually pushed him to talk about all the things he never wanted to tell anyone, least of all you. He was desperate to maintain the image he wanted you to have of him – tough, indomitable, dependable."

"That's ridiculous," Grace protests, but something is twisting unpleasantly inside her. "I wanted to _help_ him."

"By forcing him to expose his weaknesses to you?"

"It wasn't like that," Grace says quietly, but some of the memories that stir restlessly in her mind silently challenge her defiant words.

"Do you _really_ not know what happened to him in prison, Grace?" Ellen demands. "Giving him a damned good kicking pretty much on a daily basis was the very least of it. They hurt him, Grace. They hurt him, degraded him, did everything they could to express their utter contempt for him. And you pushed and pushed him to tell you all about it, every injury, every humiliation, every defeat."

"Ellen…"

"Just think about it, hmm?" Ellen says, her tone suddenly gentle again. "What is he, on the most fundamental level?"

"Are we talking archetypes?"

"If you like."

Grace shrugs. "Then… he's a protector."

"Exactly. He's a protector. That's ultimately how he defines himself. Son, brother; father, husband. Lover. Superior officer… _Protector_. A protector who found himself in a situation where he couldn't even protect himself. And how does he attempt to reconcile that in his own head?"

"Denial," Grace says heavily, knowing it's the truth.

"Exactly. Oh, he needed help – but not from you, Grace. He couldn't open up to you. Not without completely shattering his self-image."

Unhappily, Grace asks, "So what do I do now?"

Ellen's answer is simple. "You learn to listen to your heart occasionally, not just your head."

-oOo-

It's not in her nature to let her heart rule her head, of course. Grace Foley is a thinker and always has been. She remembers the fond, bewildered indulgence of her parents and her siblings as they often wondered aloud where she got her brains from and why she was so studious, so academic. No-one pushed Grace to succeed, but nor did anyone attempt to hold her back. She made her own way in the word, armed with her ferocious intelligence and her burning curiosity. Now, she is what she is, and she – largely – accepts that. Yet Ellen's advice has considerable merit and Grace knows it. Boyd is not a thinker, not in the way she is. He's intelligent, certainly, and he has a certain flexibility of thought that she actually envies, but he doesn't over-analyse things the way she does.

_Heart, not head,_ Grace thinks, sitting in her parked car not long after saying goodbye to Ellen. Rifling through her bag for her phone, she finally dials the unfamiliar number, not at all sure what she's going to say if the call is answered. It takes several rings, but eventually a deep and insouciant voice says calmly, "Hi."

"It's me," she says, feeling impossibly foolish.

"Yeah," Boyd's voice says with a definite hint of amusement. "I gathered that from the number."

Of course he did. She pushes on. "Look, I'm in Primrose Hill. I was wondering… are you at home? Can I come over?"

"Yeah, I am; and yeah, you can. Not sure what I can manage on the hospitality front, though. D'you know the building that used to be St. George's? The flat's not far from there. If you get lost, send up a distress flare..."

She doesn't get lost, though it takes her a while to master the geography of the area and to find an appropriate parking space. Further down the road from several modern buildings housing a conglomeration of purpose-built apartments, she finds the unremarkable Edwardian villa she's looking for. Long-ago converted into separate flats, it reminds her of the sort of place she used to live at least forty years ago when money was a lot tighter than it is now. Though she lived on the very top floor, and Boyd, she soon discovers as she spies the external steps down, is living below street-level. When he opens the door to her she can't help saying, "Don't tell me – you found yourself pining for the old basement?"

"Daylight is a vastly overrated commodity, Grace."

She eyes him for a moment, taking in the casual clothes, the ruffled silver mane, the neatly trimmed beard. She's beginning to suspect – disgustedly – that he's reached some kind of plateau where age and looks have found equilibrium, that no matter how much older he gets now, his appearance is not going to change very much at all. It's just not fair. "I'm sure we only spent all those years down in the bunker because you wouldn't let the Met rehouse us somewhere decent."

"I liked my bunker," he says, deliberately sulky.

"I know you did. Can I come in, or do I need a password?"

His accommodation is not what she expects, even for a basement flat. One big room, the only windows the ones at the front that are well below the height of the pavement; an open archway into what may possibly be the smallest kitchen she's ever seen and one further door which she automatically assumes leads to the bathroom. The fixtures and fittings all seem to be of good quality, as is the furniture, but he is still essentially living in a single space roughly the size of their old squad room. She shakes her head. "Aren't you a bit old to be living like a student, Boyd?"

"Down-sizing is all the rage. So I'm told."

"By whoever rented this to you, presumably?"

"I'm not exactly roughing it, Grace."

He has a point, she concedes. The electrical good are all top quality, no expense spared, and the big, wide bed at the rear of the room, tucked in where the shadows gather, doesn't look as if it's come from any retail park chain. "Bijou?"

"Exactly. Anyway, it's temporary. Tea or coffee?"

"I know this is a… sensitive… subject," she says when he returns from the kitchen several minutes later. She takes the mug he hands her. "But I really need to talk to you."

"I thought you might," Boyd says as he settles in the chair opposite the sofa where she's perched nervously.

"I'm beginning to realise I'm embarrassingly predictable."

One eyebrow quirks a fraction. "Not always, as I recall."

He's still far too attractive. Grace sighs. "Do you think you could do me a huge favour and try not to flirt with me while I'm trying to tell you… well, while I'm trying to tell you how sorry I am, frankly."

Both eyebrows climb at that. "Break that down for me, will you, Grace? I'm sure there was an apology in there somewhere."

She grits her teeth. "There was."

"Jolly good. What for?"

She's tempted to lash out at him for deliberately baiting her, but his gaze is very steady and very shrewd. He's not bantering with her, nor is he genuinely ignorant of what she means. Grace guesses he's testing her in some quiet, subtle way. She sips her coffee for a moment. Strong and unsweetened, just as she's always preferred it. "For arrogantly thinking I knew best. For pushing you when I knew you didn't want to be pushed. For acting like a psychologist, not a lover. For not learning when to keep my mouth shut. I could go on, but perhaps I'm finally learning that too many words can be as destructive as too few."

"That's a big admission."

Grace does what definitely doesn't come naturally to her – she speaks from the heart not the head. "I hate not having you in my life, Peter. I know you said you couldn't be my friend, and I know I don't have any right to ask, but… it's been over eighteen months now – can't we move on?"

"We _have_ moved on, Grace," he says quietly.

"Bad phrasing on my part. Can't we agree a truce? You've been my best friend for years… and I miss you."

His gaze is level. "You know I'm thinking about moving out of London?"

"Spence told me, yes. I'm not talking about living in each other's pockets, Boyd, I'd just like to know that if I wanted to pick up the phone to call you, it would be all right."

"Grace, you're sitting in my flat. And I was the one who told _you_ to call _me_, remember?"

She smiles a little uncertainly. "So… we're okay?"

Boyd shrugs. "Yeah, we're okay. Come on, then, tell me about this new book of yours…"

-oOo-

It's better. It's not perfect, but it's better. They speak a few times on the telephone and they make tentative plans to have lunch without actually setting a date, and Grace slowly starts to feel that they are definitely moving into yet another phase of their long association. In many ways he's become very much like the man she first knew so many years ago – less shadowed, a lot more humorous – but this time he's gently flirtatious in a distinctly non-predatory way as if he understands almost better than she does that the past is the past and revisiting it is pointless. His attitude doesn't help her make sense of her own thoughts and emotions, but it makes if far easier to keep the lines of communication open. So much easier, in fact, that when she finds herself in the general vicinity of Tufnell Park on the morning when she's also far, far too early for an appointment in Kentish Town it makes perfect sense to her to make an unscheduled diversion.

Descending the steps to his rented front door, she smiles slightly to herself at the determinedly closed state of the curtains behind the barred basement windows. It's not long past nine and the chances are fairly high that he's awake but still lounging at his ease in that big expensive bed. The thought doesn't disturb her as much as it should, perhaps because she refuses to dwell on it too much. She raps firmly on the door and waits. Certain she hears a scuffling noise from within, she knocks again and is eventually rewarded by the sound of bolts being drawn and locks being turned. Setting a faintly sardonic smile in place, she mentally tests a variety of barbed comments. The door opens a fraction and she finds herself looking into faintly quizzical dark eyes. The acerbic greeting dies on her lips. Those eyes are dark, but they don't belong to Peter Boyd.

"Grace," Ellen says, her tone more than a little startled.

There is, of course, no possible conclusion to be drawn aside from the obvious one. Mainly because her old friend appears to be wearing nothing more than a man's white shirt beneath a large and equally masculine dressing gown. For a single frozen moment they simply stare blankly at each other. It's Ellen who rallies first, saying, "This might not be the best time…"

"I can see that," Grace says and she's faintly surprised by how cool, how composed her voice sounds.

"Oh, God…"

It gets worse. Though she can't see anything in the gloom beyond the minimally open door, Grace hears – distinctly – the familiar male voice that growls irritably, "Fuck's sake… just tell whoever it is to piss off and come back to bed, woman."

It hits her low in the stomach, causes a very real lurch of nausea that she quickly suppresses. She says, "I'd do what the man says, if I were you."

"Grace," Ellen says again, but Grace is already walking back to the stone steps that will take her back to the pavement, her car and sanity.

-oOo-

"I think you're overreacting," Ellen says, and for a moment, just for one brief moment, Grace understands very well indeed the temptation to slap someone. They are standing in her narrow hallway, and the metaphorical temperature is threatening to reach absolute zero.

Managing to remain icily calm, Grace raises her eyebrows. "Do you?"

"Actually, I do."

"Do you think Rory would agree?"

Impatience quite clear, Ellen snaps, "Rory and I haven't been together for over six months. He's in New York."

"Well, that's something, I suppose."

"Please. Spare me the moral outrage, Grace. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Boyd was your _client_, Ellen."

"_Was_. Past tense. Why do you think I referred him on to Dan Campbell?"

"Oh, this just gets better and better. Isn't he a bit old for you?"

"Stop it, Grace. I didn't come here for a lecture, I came here because you're my friend and I didn't want things to be… awkward… between us."

Grace stares at her incredulously. "Just how naïve are you, Ellen? How can things not be 'awkward' as you so delicately put it?"

"You really are overreacting. You kicked him out eighteen months ago, remember? Even though he told you what it would mean. Now you're back in contact and you suddenly think you have ownership rights, is that it?"

"Don't be stupid. For God's sake, Ellen, you were his therapist…"

"Past tense again. Look, this isn't some great romance, Grace."

"Is that supposed to make it better?"

"I like him, and he likes me. We get on, we have fun – "

"I bet," Grace says, unable to stop herself.

For the first time, Ellen displays a real flash of anger. "What do you want me to say to you, Grace? That your ex is a handsome, articulate and thoroughly charming man? That I like him because he's exciting and entertaining… and because given half a chance he's a bloody tiger in the bedroom? Is that _really_ what you want to hear?"

The jealousy surging through her is real and sharp, but Grace manages a terse, "Oh, very mature."

"Deal with it," Ellen snaps. "Or don't, it's up to you. I told you once, that's unquestionably a one woman man, and my opinion hasn't changed one iota. It's not me he wants – it's you. It's always been you. Now, do you want to have a sensible conversation about this, or…?"

They talk. Briefly, curtly and pointlessly. When Ellen leaves, Grace retreats to her living room and simply sits for a long, long time, unable to martial her thoughts and emotions into any kind of sensible order. All that she really knows is that somewhere deep inside her there is a sick, hollow emptiness that she thought she'd overcome.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	5. Duty and Honour

**FIVE – Duty and Honour**

Ellen tells him that evening, not in person but on the phone, and he's left reeling under the impact of the call. Not because she makes it very clear that they won't be seeing each other again – that leaves Boyd largely unmoved – but because the implications of everything else she says genuinely shake him. Grace. In the end, it is always Grace, the woman who's infuriated and entranced him for more than a decade and a half. Anger and regret swirl inside him and it takes a considerable amount of effort not to simply leave his basement flat at a run. The impulse to get straight into the car and head for the house that was briefly his home is staggeringly intense, but he manages to overcome it. He's learning that sometimes it pays to listen to his head instead of his heart – and he has no idea how ironic that is.

Boyd doesn't know how he feels. Too many complicated, contradictory emotions fight for supremacy inside him, and his response is to reach for the half-empty bottle of whiskey and simply stare into space as the heavy, melancholy notes of Mahler fill the big room. He drinks and he thinks and neither do him very much good. His mind wanders to dark places he usually makes a conscious effort to avoid, associations and memories tumbling over one another and he concludes that he's made a serious mistake delaying his departure from London. He loves the city in all its moods, loves its colours and its shadows equally, but it's become a haunted place for him, a place where every turn seems to bring him face to face with yet another ghost.

He thinks of his dead son, of all the things that could have been, all the things that should have been. He thinks about the once-happy marriage destroyed by drink and pain and emptiness. He thinks, too, of the stellar career he could have had if he'd been less bullish, less determined to march to the sound of his own drum. The career that eventually imploded so spectacularly. He thinks of Grace.

He needs peace. If nearly two years of therapy have taught him anything it's that he needs peace.

There will be no peace with Grace. She simply doesn't know when he needs to be left alone with his thoughts. Always talking, that's Grace. Always talking, always questioning, never content to simply sit back and observe. It used to amuse him when he was younger and had more tolerance for it, and then came the dark days when his world was reduced to an eight by ten foot prison cell and after that… very little amused him.

Boyd needs peace. While he's still a few good years left in him. He thinks of childhood holidays and the open stretches of the South Downs with the sea glistening in the distance. Peace. A small cottage, maybe, or a barn conversion. An old man with a dog at his heels as he wanders aimlessly for perhaps the first time in his life. He isn't even that fond of dogs, but the man in his perfect vision of the future is definitely accompanied by a sleek, solid black Labrador.

It's a fantasy. It could be a reality. He needs the open space, needs the freedom to wander free of ghosts and bad memories. He fancies he will die alone as an old man living on the outskirts of some small village, and his neighbours will shake their heads in bewilderment when the story finally comes out who and what he used to be. They will only know him as the quiet, scarred old man with the black dog, the one who walks up the dusty lane to the local shop to buy a newspaper every morning.

The whiskey is going down in the bottle, which possibly explains his increasingly gloomy thoughts.

Grace. Oh, yes, it's always Grace in the end.

Can't live with her, can't live without her. It faintly amuses Boyd to be caught in such a trite dilemma. He goes to sleep with the glass still in his hand and the visions of the Downs still in his head.

-oOo-

Inevitably, she surprises him. The reception he receives isn't exactly fulsome, but it's nowhere near as frosty as he anticipated. Sheepishly, he admits, "I thought you'd be angrier."

The look Grace gives him is speculative and very wise. "Oh, I'm angry. Furious, in fact. Just not with you."

"Now I'm confused," he says, following her into the living room. It hasn't changed much in his absence, and he can clearly picture the many evenings they spent sitting together on the sofa.

"Good," Grace says as she sits down.

Boyd shakes his head. "That's it? That's the sum total of your input?"

"I told you, Boyd, I'm experimenting with being as laconic as you are."

He decides to risk provoking her. It might prove painful, but it might also help him ascertain exactly what's going on behind the tranquil expression. "So you're not intending to tear my balls off for screwing Ellen, then?"

"No."

Boyd studies her carefully. She looks perfectly calm, perfectly composed. In fact, he thinks, his attention wandering, she looks calm, composed and impossibly serene. Beautiful. He sees exactly what she sees, but he doesn't process the information in the same way. He doesn't see a woman growing older day by remorseless day, he sees a woman he's loved for longer than he can accurately remember, one who's as attractive to him now as she ever was. He tries hard not to smile, but fails. "This is going to be a great conversation if we're both using monosyllables."

"Why are you here, Boyd?"

He decides to simply be honest. "Because I can't stay in London, Grace. I thought I could, at least temporarily, but I can't. I rang some letting agents this morning. They're hunting for a suitable place for me."

"Where?"

"Sussex. Maybe Hampshire."

"You'll hate it down there."

"No, I won't," Boyd tells her languidly.

Grace snorts, her scepticism quite clear. "Oh, come on, you're a city boy through and through."

"Born and bred," he agrees. "It's time, that's all. I don't want to end my days surrounded by ghosts. I'm getting out while I still can. Before it's too late."

"Have you actually thought this through?"

Wondering how she still manages to make him feel like a naughty schoolboy, Boyd eyes her placidly. "Yes, Grace."

"Now who's being monosyllabic?"

"Have you got any whiskey?"

She blinks, clearly bemused. "It's a bit early, isn't it?"

"Sun's over the yard arm, and you and I are going to have a very long conversation."

"We are?"

He nods, his determination not wavering. "We are."

Grace stands up. "I'll get the whiskey."

-oOo-

It takes longer than even he expects, but thankfully it's not as difficult. Perhaps because he's more practised now at explaining himself or perhaps because Grace says very little. She prompts when necessary, and she asks occasional, gentle questions, but she doesn't push and she doesn't try to second-guess him. Boyd works his way steadily through from the beginning to the end, and into the silence that eventually falls between them he says, "It was never about shutting you out, Grace."

"I know that now. I'm just sorry I didn't know it then."

"I didn't know it then, either," he admits. "Actually, I don't think I knew what the hell was going on then. I wasn't in a good place."

"Oh, I knew that. I just didn't know how to help you. I thought I was doing the right thing."

Boyd watches her, well aware of the anguish in her blue eyes. "I want to close the door on it, Grace. On all of it. I can't do that without your… cooperation."

"Do you really think locking it all away is wise?"

He wonders if he can even begin to explain to her the things he barely understands himself. "That's not what I'm trying to do. This is about reconciling everything, about accepting it and moving on. Leaving it all in the past where it all belongs."

"That might be the healthiest thing I've ever heard you say, psychologically-speaking."

"Yeah, well I've had a lot of therapy."

"So I gather."

Boyd does not miss the undertone in her voice. He can almost see her claws starting to show. He doesn't blame her at all. He knows exactly how he would feel if the situation were reversed. Knows the jealousy would be eating him alive. They still love each other far too much for things not to hurt. As gently as he knows how, he asks, "Do you want to talk about Ellen? About me and Ellen?"

The imaginary claws flex. "Nothing to do with me."

"Bollocks," he says succinctly. Oh, yes, he knows how she feels, knows what his own possessive streak would drive him to. He wants to explain, to at least try to explain. "It was just a… circumstantial thing. Nothing inappropriate happened while she was my therapist. We just sort of drifted together a bit. Afterwards."

"There was a little more than drifting going on, from what I hear. And from what I saw for myself yesterday morning."

He can't hold her gaze. The blue eyes are too intense, too knowing. He looks at the floor. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that."

There's finally a reluctant note of humour in her voice. "I'm never going to visit you unannounced again. I'm too old for the trauma."

Maybe it's all right. "I've had my marching orders in that department."

Her response, though, is sharper than he expects. "Obviously. Well, why else would you be turning up on my doorstep?"

Typical. Push him off balance with a flippant comment and then go straight for the jugular. Wearily, he says, "I'm not playing this game with you, Grace."

"Fine by me."

Boyd can still see the seething jealousy in her, and though he wisely doesn't comment on it, he actually finds it quite heart-warming. He thinks it proves beyond all doubt that maybe she still feels the same way about him as he does about her. Love is a very strange thing. Deliberately changing the subject, he says, "I want to close the door on it all, Grace. To do that, I need to know that there's nothing left you need answers to."

There's a long pause. Then, "You've told me more in the last couple of hours than you've told me in the last fifteen years, Boyd."

"Best opportunity you're ever going to get to ask me anything you want," he teases gently.

A tiny smile ghosts across her face. "Anything?"

Boyd sighs quite deliberately. "Within reason."

-oOo-

"In the spirit of openness and honesty…"

At the sound of her voice, Boyd opens his eyes again. It doesn't do much for the headache throbbing sullenly behind his eyes. He's inordinately glad the room is shadowy, lit only by the standard lamp in the corner. He says, "You're very drunk, Grace; you know that, don't you?"

"So are you."

He shakes his head and immediately regrets it. "I'm not very drunk. I'm merely mildly inebriated."

"Whatever. In the spirit of openness and honesty…"

"Yes?"

Grace shrugs. "I've forgotten."

Boyd knows that look. It's the look that suggests she's thought better of whatever it was she was going to say. He closes his eyes again. "Don't believe you."

"All right. In the In the spirit of openness and honesty… why did you plead guilty?"

Not the question he was expecting. It's a question that requires a moment of reflection. He shrugs dismissively. "Because I _was_ guilty? Because if I'd pleaded not guilty it would've made a mockery of my entire career?"

"You didn't kill him, though. Did you? Nicholson?"

"You said it yourself once before – I didn't pull the trigger. I knew what was going to happen to him. Wasn't the first… morally ambiguous… thing I'd done over the years, was it?"

"Stefan Koscinski? Eve's… whatever he was."

"Amongst others," Boyd says, opening his eyes again and looking across the room at her. "When I was a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed young constable just getting used to wearing a uniform everything seemed very straight-forward. The law was the law, and it was my duty to uphold it. It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that it was a ridiculously simplistic point of view. Justice – natural justice – doesn't always fall into the neat compartments created by society's laws."

"Very profound, Boyd."

"Mock all you like, it's the truth."

She says nothing for a long, long moment. Then she visibly sighs. "Promise me you're not just running away?"

"I'm not," he says truthfully. "I'm done with running; done with fighting, too, if it comes to that. Now all I want is peace."

"I'm going to miss you."

The words are so quiet, and they hurt so much. He says gruffly, "I'm hardly moving to the other side of the world, Grace. An hour and bit on the train, at most."

"I'm still going to miss you."

For a moment he almost wavers. Almost, but not quite. Forcing a light note into his voice, he asks, "How do you feel about dogs, Grace?"

"Dogs? Why?"

"I'm getting a dog."

Grace rolls her eyes. "Oh, now I really _have_ heard everything."

-oOo-

It's the idea place. A small, isolated cottage not far from the tiny hamlet of Saddlescombe with trees and fields in one direction and the Downs and a distant view of the sea in the other. Even better, the owners have indicated a clear willingness to rent the place to him with a view to ultimately purchasing it from them. He walks round and round the few rooms, deep in contemplation while the letting agent, a small, nervous-looking young woman in high heels and round spectacles, watches him with wary suspicion. It's the scar, of course. Boyd is used to the attention it draws, used to the assumptions people make, the conclusions they jump to. He suspects the agent thinks he might be a small-time London villain looking for a rural bolthole. Somewhere to stash the sawn-off shotgun and the bags of used notes. He doesn't disillusion her.

"All right," he says in the end. "Tell them I'll take it."

It's that easy. Boyd returns to London that evening and quickly realises that he won't miss the heavy traffic, the continual hustle and bustle. He won't even miss the restaurants and the bars, the easy access to shops and entertainment. It strikes him that now he's in his sixties perhaps he's finally grown up a little. The quiet life that once would certainly have appalled him is now so powerfully seductive that he finds everything about his current surroundings only serves to make him more and more irritable. He wants to be out of Tufnell Park and out of London, and he doesn't care at all that he's going to lose a substantial deposit on his too-hastily rented basement flat.

There's only one cloud on Boyd's horizon.

He calls her far too late in the evening with his news, and isn't surprised when it's less than joyously received. He has dreams where he simply asks her to come with him and she agrees, dreams where they spend the rest of their days pottering about idyllic country lanes together. Happy dreams, but dreams nonetheless. Safe in his basement, he dares to suggest, "You'd like Saddlescombe."

"No I wouldn't."

"You would, you know. It's just a bunch of houses in the middle of nowhere."

"I rest my case."

"Brighton's just down the bloody road. Surely that's cosmopolitan enough for you?"

"Lovely," her voice says, her lack of enthusiasm quite clear.

"Have it your own way," he tells her, and not all of his annoyance is feigned.

-oOo-

They gather to give him a good send-off. A broad selection of friends and ex-colleagues, most of whom make no secret of the fact that they think he's finally gone completely mad. Frankie – who else? – is even openly taking bets on how long he'll last in the wilds of Sussex before he runs screaming back to London. He lets them have their fun. With the exception of Grace, none of them really have any comprehension of the extraordinary metamorphosis Boyd has been through over the last few years. They still see him as he always was – a tough, resourceful man capable of stalwart leadership in the most difficult times. Indefatigable, stubborn and absolutely committed to the pursuit of justice. To most of them he is still their former commander, a man to be respected… and just occasionally feared.

He remembers that man very well, but he doesn't mourn his passing. Boyd has finally learnt some of the lessons that would have made his life far easier if he'd learnt them years before, but he has also come to accept that it's better to have learnt those lessons late than never at all. He's not closing the door on all his old life, only on what has been one of the hardest chapters of it. In the morning he will take flowers to his son's grave and then he will leave the city, and he will leave it with a wry, fond smile on his face. He's deep in contemplation of the fact when Frankie sidles up to him. He looks down at her and smiles. He likes Frankie. He's always liked Frankie. He sees a lot of himself in her. She says, "So you're really doing this, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You're going to be bored shitless down there within a week."

"We'll see."

She looks uncomfortable, then blurts out, "What about Grace?"

Boyd regards her neutrally. "What _about_ Grace?"

"You're just going to walk away and leave her on her own?"

"There's no 'just' about it, Frankie."

"For God's sake, Boyd…"

"Let me tell you something about me and Grace," he says, drawing her slightly to one side to reduce his chances of being overheard. "When we're apart we pine for each other, and when we're together we tear chunks out of each other. I'm too damned old and tired to go through all that fucking and fighting again – "

Frankie winces. "Too much information, Boyd."

" – on a daily basis."

"So that's it? You just walk away?"

"Leave it alone, hmm?"

Frankie's expression makes it clear she's not happy. "How can I do that? I think you're making a huge mistake. The pair of you… surely you could make it work if you really tried?"

"Aren't you a bit old to still believe in 'happily ever after'?"

She pouts. "Dad – "

Boyd gives her a gently tempered glare. "Come on, Frankie, don't try that old trick on me."

"Why not? It usually works. You've been more of a father to me than – "

"Frankie."

She subsides unwillingly, and despite all the years that have passed Boyd catches a glimpse of Frankie as she used to be – feisty, rebellious, prickly and far too clever for her own good. Without thinking he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a tight, affectionate embrace. "Daddy's girl, huh?"

"Yeah," she says, her voice muffled against his chest. "Always bloody was, wasn't I? I'm really going to miss you, you cantankerous old bugger…"

Boyd sighs. "Why does everyone seem to imagine I'm moving to the end of the bloody earth…?"

-oOo-

Whether it's planned or not, eventually it's just the two of them sitting at one of the quieter tables while those of their friends and former colleagues who remain are gathered together at the bar. Years of experience tell Boyd that there's far more going on behind her quiet, faintly amused expression than he's ever going to get to the bottom of. He refills her glass for her. "Go on, then."

Grace blinks innocently. "What?"

"The lecture you're going to give me about keeping busy and staying out of trouble."

"Oh, that. Not going to bother. You're a lost cause, Boyd."

"Thanks, Grace."

"In the nicest possible way."

"Hmm," he mutters. He sips his own drink, listens to the background noise, the chatter and the laughter, the sound of glasses. There are still things that need to be said, and he's fairly sure she knows it as well as he does. He draws in a long breath, exhales slowly. It doesn't help much. "Cards on the table?"

"Why not?" Grace says, sounding far more languid than she evidently feels.

"I wish we hadn't spent so long fucking about and getting nowhere. Maybe things would've been different if we hadn't waited so long."

"I don't think they would. Different pressures, same outcome."

"You think so?" Boyd asks quizzically.

Grace nods solemnly. "I do. We were together for, what, just under a year before you were arrested? I don't remember it being particularly easy. Trying to balance work and… us… I mean."

"Mm. I suppose you're right."

"I'm always right."

Boyd grins. "No, you're not."

"True."

He asks carefully, "Are you going to ask me to stay?"

Grace shakes her head. "No."

"Thank you," he tells her with absolute sincerity.

"Cards on the table?" Grace says, echoing his words.

"Go ahead."

"I made a mistake. A big mistake."

Boyd shrugs. "I think we both did."

"I think you had more of an excuse than I did."

"Please tell me you're not going to be maudlin for the rest of the evening?"

Grace smiles slightly. "No. I'm going to have another drink to wish my old friend well in his new life, and then I'm going to go home and cry myself gently to sleep."

"Oh, God."

"And in the morning I'm going to think of you cursing your head off as you get lost in all those country lanes, and I'm going to laugh like a hyena."

"Yeah, I can picture it quite clearly."

Grace picks up her glass. "Are you going to ask me to come with you?"

It's Boyd's turn to shake his head. "No."

"Thank you."

"You make sure you grow old disgracefully," he instructs her a few moments later, uncomfortably aware of the catch in his voice. "Drink too much, burn the midnight oil, get on everyone's nerves; go ahead and finish writing your damned book about all the fun you had working in the basement with the Met's finest. But I warn you, I'm not afraid to sue."

"I'm changing all the names to protect the guilty, _Timothy_."

Boyd growls and challenges, "You wouldn't bloody dare."

"Oh, I would, _Detective Superintendent_."

"You're extremely lucky I love you so much," he tells her, no longer caring that his voice is raw.

She gives him the tiniest of smiles, but there are tears in her eyes. "I know."

She's so fragile, so tiny and yet so strong. So delicate, so hauntingly beautiful. He loves her beyond all reason. Always will. Boyd watches her for a moment as she sips her drink demurely and he wonders why trying to do the right thing for both of them is so incredibly, impossibly painful.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	6. Deus Ex Machina and Special Relationship

**SIX – Deus Ex Machina**

Generally, Grace is content, but there are times when she finds she's extremely happy. Usually when she's speaking to Boyd on the telephone, or reading one of the surprisingly long and rambling emails that always seem to be time-stamped well after midnight and come with the suspicious suggestion of whiskey fumes. She's happy that he's happy, and he seems to be going from exuberant strength to strength. She laughs almost until she cries at his elaborate but whimsical tales of trying to instil some kind of discipline into the fat, wriggling ball of black fluff he steadfastly insists will one day grow into Man's Best Friend.

"I'm going to have to go," he says to her one afternoon. "Finlay's eating the cooker."

"It's a puppy, Boyd. It can't possibly be eating the cooker."

"You don't know Finlay. Oh, for… I have to go."

It amuses Grace no end, the visions she has of Boyd – impatient, irascible, mercurial Boyd – dealing with the mess and chaos that only a young puppy can bring. She finds herself relaying the tales to several of their erstwhile colleagues, none of whom seem to find them anywhere near as funny and enchanting as she does. It dawns on her eventually that with the possible exception of Frankie, none of their erstwhile colleagues have ever found Boyd himself as funny and enchanting as she does, either. She feels their interest in where he is and what he's up to steadily waning as they move ever-onwards with their own lives and careers and eventually she starts to actually feel a little embarrassed mentioning his name.

Frankie notices. Frankie notices and Frankie pragmatically says, "Just go down there and see him, Grace. It can't be more than an hour's drive. And if he invites you to stay for breakfast, so much the bloody better."

But it's just not that simple, and sometimes Grace doesn't think she even remembers why.

The final draft of her book remains unfinished. It's a change of direction for her, not the sort of thing she usually writes, but her publisher remains convinced that it will be a best seller, feeding the public's seemingly insatiable demand for insights into crime and the solving of crime. For Grace, though, the manuscript is an intensely personal thing, a documentation of almost a decade spent with some of the most fascinating and cheerfully maladjusted people she's ever known. She's not at all sure that the average reader of such things is altogether prepared for some of the wilder of Boyd's eccentricities or the more gruesome of Frankie's pranks on her unsuspecting colleagues.

How to explain the dark hilarity of the lab where the need for dignity and respect always co-existed with the equally powerful need to release the emotions stirred up by painful and exhausting cases that left all of them drained and cynical? How to explain to faceless strangers why the sheer belligerent hyperactivity of Chair Throwing Day went down in departmental legend as one of Boyd's finest hours? How to begin to explain a freak phenomenon, a fluke of time, circumstance and personality?

Grace misses those days. Misses the comradeship, the certainty, the knowledge that whatever happened, no matter how many sharp words were exchanged, the next morning she wouldn't be able to stop herself smiling as Boyd cannonballed his way through the basement, shouting and grinning and cajoling as necessary. She misses all of it and all of them, but it is Boyd's long shadow that keeps her from moving on as all the others have.

-oOo-

There's nothing remarkable about the Tuesday she returns home after a very ordinary trip to the shops and hears her house phone ringing and ringing endlessly as she struggles to juggle keys and carrier bags and get the front door open. When she finally picks up with a breathless hello, it's Frankie's voice that demands, "Grace? Where on earth have you been? Your mobile's switched off."

"I forgot to charge it," Grace says, bewildered by the intensity of the other woman's voice. "Frankie? What's the matter?"

"Boyd," Frankie says, and for a moment it seems as if she thinks just the name should explain everything. "He's in the Royal Sussex in Brighton."

Inevitably, Grace feels her heart sink. "What's happened?"

"Oh, he's pretty much all right, from what I can gather – a few cuts and bruises. Got side-swiped by an oncoming car on one of those Godforsaken country lanes. Hit and run. The police are dealing with it. Anyway, they're keeping him in overnight for observation – concussion."

Relaxing slightly, Grace asks, "They called you?"

"No, he did. Couldn't get hold of you, could he? He's going mad about that wretched bloody dog of his."

"Finlay?"

"Whatever the hell it's called. Dog got hit too, took off over the fields and disappeared. Farmer found it and took it to the local vet. Boyd wants someone to go down there and sort it all out. Actually, he wants _you_ to go down there and sort it all out."

"Me?" Grace challenges, startled.

"Well I can't go, can I? I'm up to my elbows in some poor bugger's intestines here."

"Frankie."

"What? I'm looking for any evidence of – "

"I really don't need to know," Grace assures her. She sighs. "All right, all right. Just tell me where I'm supposed to be going..."

-oOo-

"Ah," the young vet says with the kind of twinkly-eyed smile that Grace suspects is probably responsible for a considerable amount of wistful female sighing. "Mr Boyd's dog, yes. Finlay."

"Finlay," she agrees, wondering why she suddenly feels very old and very invisible. It's got to be that smile, she decides. "Is he badly injured?"

The vet chuckles. "Good Lord, no. Absolutely bomb-proof, that dog. A few cuts and bruises – much like his owner, I gather. Lucky, the pair of them. I'll get the nurse to fetch him for you."

"Wait," Grace says quickly. "Fetch him for me?"

The young man looks faintly surprised. "Well, yes. There's absolutely no reason for us to keep him overnight. Keep an eye on him for a day or two, and if you're worried bring him back – but he should be as right as rain."

"Mr Boyd is in hospital," Grace points out. "He won't be discharged until tomorrow at the earliest."

"Oh? Well, do pass on our best wishes. Nice chap."

"So?" Grace prompts. "He can't look after Finlay while he's in hospital, can he?"

"Well, I'm afraid we can't keep him here…"

She's right to be apprehensive. Finlay the ball of black fluff is now Finlay the leggy teenager, a big, muscular, exuberant creature who seems to possess a will of iron and the inclination to do exactly as he pleases. It's not a great stretch of imagination to draw the obvious parallels between dog and owner, which amuses Grace for about the first three minutes of their association. Plainly, she can't take him back to London with her and she's not at all sure about leaving him in the car while she visits his stricken master. Glaring coldly at the dog sitting on the back seat, she says curtly, "If you chew anything at all, your dad's getting the bill."

Finlay smiles toothily at her, his tongue lolling happily, and Grace very definitely questions the wisdom of leaving him on his own in the vehicle. As she walks away she risks a glance back. Finlay is staring at her mournfully, big brown eyes on the soulful side of beseeching and she once again finds herself mentally comparing man and beast. She's seen that look – or one very like it – often enough before in the past. Usually at very close quarters in the quiet confines of the bedroom. Aware that such thoughts are both dangerous and destructive, she banishes them from her mind and goes in search of the man in question.

She finds Boyd on an open ward, battered, bruised and characteristically bad-tempered. He's very definitely not impressed with the idea of being mixed in with the _hoi polloi_, and though he greets her warmly, he descends rapidly into the kind of irritable grumbling she remembers far too well. Grace waits patiently for the worst to pass and then says, "So what am I expected to do now? Ten years ago you would have just discharged yourself."

"Ten years ago I was younger and fitter. Have a bloody heart, Grace, I was hit by a damned car."

"I do know that. I can't take Finlay back to London with me, Boyd, it's just not practical."

"Well, there's an obvious answer to that, isn't there…?"

-oOo-

Against all expectation – and her own better judgement – Grace falls in love with the little cottage immediately. Like many buildings in the area it's predominantly built of flint and it sits well back from the narrow lane that provides the only vehicular access, but instead of a sense of crushing isolation she feels only peace as she surveys the sweeping views from various windows. Finally, she thinks she understands. It's not an alien, unwelcoming place, it is home. There's nothing twee about it, it's simply quiet, practical and solidly dependable. She watches the way Finlay lazily curls up in his basket in the kitchen, and she feels completely serene.

It's foolish, she realises as she explores her temporary home a little more. Foolish and pointless. This is Boyd's home, not hers, despite the uncomfortable sense of familiarity generated by some of the furniture and possessions she remembers. Most of the things from his big Greenwich house went into storage while he was in prison, and she knows he's subsequently disposed of many of them, but here and there Grace spots things that take her years back in time, including, she discovers, the big leather armchair that used to grace the master bedroom and the mirror from the long hall. There's a sense of permanence about the place, a strong feeling that this is where life has brought him and this is where he's staying. Yet, there's nothing sentimental about any of it, no indication that there's anything in him that's hankering for the past.

"I think I could live here," she says to Finlay when she returns to the kitchen. Slightly embarrassed, she chuckles. "Don't you dare ever tell him I said that."

The afternoon slowly becomes the evening and she feeds both of them before retiring to the main living room. There's a television in the corner – modern, flat screen – but from the dust on the remote control it's barely used. Doesn't surprise her; Boyd never was one for watching, not when he could be out doing. It seems he reads a lot, and listens to a lot of music – his collection is extensive and eclectic – and there's a very new, very lightweight laptop on the solid oak coffee table. There's nothing anywhere that hints at any kind of restlessness or regret. It seems he really is as happy and settled as he's been leading her to believe.

Grace is glad, but it doesn't stop the tears that start to well up. She's being stupid and self-centred, she tells herself sternly as those tears start to spill. No-one else she knows deserves peace and happiness more than Peter Boyd, and the part of her that has been secretly waiting for him to admit his mistake and return to London is a selfish and unworthy part that shames her. Through the tears she looks at Finlay, lying placidly by the fireplace. "It's up to you now, Fin. You look after him, okay? He's been through so much…"

Finlay wags his tail slowly, and then suddenly more enthusiastically as he gets rapidly to his feet. It seems neither of them heard the latch on the back door being lifted.

"God's sake, Grace," Boyd's voice says from behind her, the note of indulgence quite clear. "You're on your own down here for five minutes and you're already talking to the bloody dog…"

-oOo-

He refuses to even entertain the idea of her driving back to London so late, and for once Grace is more than happy to pander to his stubbornness. She doesn't ask him what changed his mind, why he suddenly decided to discharge himself from the hospital. It doesn't matter and she doesn't care. She makes a token protest about the sleeping arrangements, but the look Boyd gives her in response is so wise and so steady that she submits without another murmur and simply precedes him up the stairs to the only bedroom. She expects it all to feel strangely surreal, expects a flash of _déjà vu_, but in the end it's just the most natural thing in the world to pull on the proffered oversized grey tee-shirt and settle next to him in the big, comfortable bed.

"Stay," he says simply, dropping the gentlest of kisses on her forehead.

Grace doesn't need to ask what he means. She knows. She looks at the shadows on the uneven plaster, looks at the slightly bowed ceiling. "Can I?"

Boyd snorts softly. "This was always going to be your home, too. In the end. You know that."

She explores the concept slowly and carefully and concludes that he's right. Somewhere deep in the furthest corners of her mind, the truth has always been there. "And if you hadn't needed me to come down here today…?"

"I would just have carried on patiently waiting."

"For how long?"

"For as long as it took, Grace. For as long as it took."

So warm, so solid. So familiar. Every plain, every curve, every angle so well-remembered. Grace listens to his strong, steady heartbeat and she knows what she's always known – she's exactly where she belongs. A moment or two later his voice says suspiciously, "Oh, God… you're not about to cry again, are you?"

"Yes," Grace admits, not moving her head from his chest.

"Wonderful…"

There aren't many tears in the end, but Boyd does what he's always done – he simply holds her gently and securely until the storm is over. Then they sleep.

-oOo-

"You're freezing," Grace complains bitterly far too early the next morning as jarring movement and sudden cold jerk her unpleasantly from a tranquil doze. It's no word of a lie, either – every inch of skin coming rapidly into contact with her is chilled. "What the hell have you been doing?"

"Letting the dog out. I'm afraid he doesn't have opposable thumbs."

It really is far, far too early. She groans and it's heartfelt. "Do we _really_ have to have a dog?"

"Yes, we bloody do."

"Cold hands, Boyd," she complains. "Stay on your own side until you warm up."

Beautifully, blissfully ordinary.

Boyd ignores her, stays exactly where he is, his chest firmly against her shoulder blades, his arm curved around her waist. Grace waits, but he says nothing. All she can hear is the sound of him breathing, the barest hint of birdsong and the quiet rustling of the morning breeze in the trees outside the window. She says, "No traffic."

"You wait until rush hour. The postman and the local farmer both come down the lane within half-an hour of each other. It's absolute bedlam out there."

Grace rolls onto her back and regards him contemplatively. "I suppose there are worse places to wait for the Grim Reaper."

His reply is sardonic. "There she is, my little ray of sunshine."

"You have _definitely_ been on your own too long."

"You said it, Grace. Give me your hand."

She raises her eyebrows at him. "You're feeling better, then."

"Like hell I am. I'm black and blue and any chance you had disappeared the moment I put one foot outside the back door. It's fucking freezing out there. Give me your bloody hand, will you?"

Bewildered, she does so, keenly aware of the sinewy strength of his fingers as he lifts her palm to his lips and kisses it gently. Reflexively, Grace closes her eyes and concentrates on the distinctive bristle of his beard, the softness of his lips. He kisses the inside of her wrist, startling erotic in a very artless sort of way. His voice has deepened a fraction. "Keep your eyes closed."

She does. She can feel the warmth of his skin, the tiny imperfections under her fingertips, the tough resistance of his cheekbone… and she understands. Grace doesn't open her eyes, doesn't try to find her own way. She lets him lead her fingers, lets him guide them slowly along the length of the deep scar. She can feel the slightly different texture of the tissue, feel how it's smoother and more inflexible than the surrounding skin. She can feel the distinct groove, the sharp notch it cuts into his eyebrow. Her pulse quickens autonomously and for a moment she isn't sure why.

Boyd says, "Relax."

The word triggers the memory of her own voice saying, _"Peter? Peter, relax. Come on, you're fine. Everything's all right…"_

…and for a moment she's back there, back in the moment when everything tearing him to pieces beneath the surface erupted, back in the moment when he swung his fist at her.

Her eyes snap open, and, yes, for that moment Grace is afraid. Coldly, bitterly afraid. Boyd is watching her intently, and he keeps her fingers deliberately pressed against the long, brutal scar. He knows where she is – she can see it in his dark eyes. He says quietly, "He came from behind me. Ellis. I don't think he cared where he got me or how much damage he did, just so long as people knew what he'd done. They pulled him off me, and they dragged us both off the wing with the alarms ringing and everyone screaming and shouting and banging on their cell doors. They had to sedate me before the prison doctor could take a look. I thought the bastard had blinded me."

"Spence called me," Grace says, finally letting the memories stir as they please. "We didn't know how bad it was, only that you'd been attacked by another prisoner. I sat by the phone for hours waiting to hear. I was so scared… And you still wouldn't let me visit you."

"It would've hurt us both too much, Grace. Don't you understand?"

"I do now – I didn't then."

He's silent for a long time before he says, "I didn't go in front of the parole board to come back to you. I did it just to get out of prison. I wasn't remotely ready to come back to you. Too scarred, too traumatised. Too frightened."

Ignoring the instinct to press, to analyse, to gather every scrap of information she can, Grace asks, "And now?"

"Now," Boyd says, his gaze still steady and intent, "I'm just scarred."

Wanting to believe, she asks, "Are we home, Peter?"

He kisses her palm again, just as gently. "Of course we are."

-oOo-

"I don't have any clothes."

"Personally, I see that as an advantage, not a problem."

Casting another look at the clock and inwardly groaning at just how late it's getting, Grace insists, "I need to go back to London, if not now, then certainly first thing in the morning."

"You really don't. Not until the weekend."

"Peter."

"Grace."

She does her best to glare at him, but he is so infuriatingly placid that it's frankly too difficult to maintain the requisite amount of ire. Lounging in his big leather armchair with Finlay asleep at his feet, he's just about as far removed from the volatile, highly-strung man she used to know as it's possible to get. The police officer, the grieving father, the prisoner and the traumatised licensee have all been reconciled and firmly relegated to the past. He is what he is and he is hers. Scarred, but whole. Grace says, "I'm so proud of you. Look at what you've achieved."

"A tiny cottage in the middle of bloody nowhere? Oh, and Fido here?"

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. I'm your greatest success story, Grace. And you can put that in your bloody book with my blessing."

"I've given up on the book," Grace tells him, settling unselfconsciously on his lap.

"Why?" Boyd asks, slipping his arms around her waist.

She kisses his throat. "I don't think the general public are quite ready for the unexpurgated truth about what really goes on in specialist police units."

"Damn. I was counting on living off the proceeds for years to come. You do know I'm absolutely broke? Barely a penny left to my name. Seriously."

"I'm not marrying you for your money."

"You're not marrying me at all, Grace."

"Oh, well, if we're going to live in sin," she tells him, getting back to her feet, "I really think we should at least attempt to do some sinning. Put the dog in the kitchen and come upstairs with me. Now."

Something sparks in the depths of his dark eyes. "God, I love assertive women."

Slipping free of his grasp, Grace gives him an artful smile. "I know."

-oOo-

It doesn't change, the heat and the desire. Only the minor and grudging concessions they reluctantly make to age and to his spectacular array of bruises make it any different from the way it was in the very first days. That, and the intimate familiarity that just makes everything that bit better. Grace knows how to make him purr, how to make him growl, and she joyously does both – and welcomes the subtle, teasing retribution that takes her way beyond any physical plain. They shift and they slide across each other, flesh against flesh, convex against concave; they kiss and they caress, and they worship all the places where they meet, the places where he is hard and she is soft. They travel together in heat and sensation, nothing between them barricaded, no positions left to defend. They bite and they scratch, too, when the moments become blindingly intense, and in the end they simply lie together in a tangle of limbs, neither of them really able to do much more than whisper and shiver and stroke.

"I love you," he says, and it startles her into raising her head and staring straight into his eyes. He smiles, and it's a very gentle, very real smile. "What? I still can't tell you that without you needing to analyse it from every angle?"

"You're a poster boy for the benefits of therapy, Boyd."

"Bollocks am I. I spent a year or more staring down the Cooper woman's cleavage, and God knows how long trying to convince Campbell I didn't feel the urge to punch absolutely everyone I met."

"She does have some considerable cleavage, it has to be said."

His eyes are firmly closed. "Mm."

She nips his neck. Hard. "You're a bad, bad boy."

"I have a thing for psychologists, Grace."

"She's a psychotherapist."

"It's all the same to me."

She smiles and then she says, "Marry me."

Boyd opens his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I want you to," Grace tells him patiently. "And because it's well past bloody time."

-oOo-

**EPILOGUE – Special Relationship**

Sometimes, even after so many visits, she still misses the turning and has to reverse back. The lanes all look pretty much the same to Frankie – narrow, empty and flanked sometimes by trees and sometimes by hedges. It's even worse at this time of year when everything's in leaf and it's impossible to even catch a glimpse of the cottage until it's too late. This time, though, she's lucky. She manages to brake in time to turn into the correct lane, and halfway down she spots the solitary slate roof she's looking for. She still teases them mercilessly about living out in the wilds, but although the place is small it's a lot more comfortable than the expensive London apartment she reluctantly calls home.

She turns onto what could laughingly be described as the drive – a bit of loose shingle and a lot of churned-up dried mud, and she tries not to notice that while Boyd's dirty, battered four-by-four is relatively neatly parked, Grace's car is still rusting peacefully against the hedge exactly as it was the last time she visited. And the time before that. Neither of them drive much anymore, and Frankie feels that's almost certainly for the best, given that although Boyd stubbornly refuses to admit it he's now almost completely blind in one eye thanks to the old injury – traumatic glaucoma, Frankie suspects – and that Grace has become so cheerfully absent-minded there's no guarantee she could ever find her car again if she left it parked somewhere. Whatever. Frankie still adores them both, and always will. She's the only one of the former comrades-in-arms who's stayed in anything like regular contact with them, and they treat her the just way they always have – as a sort of accidental, faintly exasperating surrogate daughter.

Getting out of her car, Frankie spots Boyd sauntering towards her. He doesn't really seem to get any older, he just gets shaggier and more grizzled with every passing year; a little more stooped, a little more shambling. Finlay pads quietly behind his master, his black muzzle long ago turned to grey. Smiling, Frankie calls, "Hey, dad."

"You don't have to shout," he chides her irritably. "I'm not bloody deaf and I'm not bloody senile."

"Good," Frankie says. "Because I'm not looking after you, you miserable old sod."

"Piss off, Frankie."

She hugs him tightly, too aware of how gaunt he's become. "How's Grace?"

"Looking forward to seeing you. God knows what she's up to in there. Damned woman never could cook to save her life. Don't be surprised if Sunday roast turns out to be whatever was left at the back of the fridge. Go in. Taking the dog down the lane for ten minutes."

Frankie smirks to herself as he ambles away, Finlay at his heels. Laconic and gruff as ever, and just as affectionate in his own highly idiosyncratic way. She heads into the house, struck as ever by how at home she instantly feels. Grace is in the kitchen, and she looks up immediately, blue eyes shining brightly. "Frankie."

The hug she gives Grace is much lighter, much gentler. Always slight, there doesn't seem to be much of her anymore – physically. Mentally, well, the eccentric absent-mindedness aside, she's every bit as sharp and shrewd as she ever was. Kissing her on the cheek, Frankie says, "I'm sorry it's been a while."

Grace shrugs mildly. "We're not going anywhere. So how is the new job?"

Frankie leans up against the kitchen counter. "Interesting, but a little… strange. Did you hear that we're not allowed to call ourselves the Cold Case Unit? Someone at the Yard's got a long memory."

"Same old cases, brand new name?"

"Yeah. There's stuff down in the archives we looked at nearly twenty years ago, Grace. Some of it's still got all our annotations all over it. It's like stepping back in time."

"How's the new Boyd?"

Frankie grimaces. "Nothing like the old one. This one has a degree in criminology and a penchant for disappearing off home at five o'clock sharp. He doesn't shout, either. Or throw tantrums. Very disappointing."

They chat and they reminisce, and when Boyd comes back with Finlay they eventually eat lunch. Frankie tells them about her new colleagues and the latest Mr Right who turned out to be yet another Mr Wrong. They talk and they laugh, and she watches the old, familiar banter between husband and wife that still carries more than a hint of a mordant edge, and she smiles to herself. Old and battle-scarred they may very well be, but Frankie knows without any doubt that they're perfectly happy with each other and with the life they've built together.

_- the end -_


End file.
